Tag Archives: asking for it

Bucket list

Sepia-tinted photo of a miniature metal bucket

I imagine my hands and knees on the floor.
There is a bucket. A dripping rag.

I’m in a kitchen. A bathroom, perhaps.
Somewhere cool, hard. Domestic.

I imagine your voice. Quiet, serious. At ease.
Do this. Like that. I whisper affirmation.
(Exact direction is a rather captivating freedom.)

I imagine your gaze, sharp, heavy
with attention. Pressing me into shape.

I imagine my skirt, riding up
as I crawl and stretch, rag in hand.
Damp folds unfurl between my thighs.

I imagine the blood in my cheeks,
my hair tidied away, nowhere to hide.
Red doesn’t always mean stop.

Shame curls my head, lust
arches my back towards the floor,
heat seeping out of me.

And then.

There are many directions this could take.

A yank, a kick, some measured violence.
A series of commands, expecting exactitude.
A baring of skin, of sweat, of yearning.
Silent attention.
An invasion; the thing that isn’t done.

A desperate struggle, mostly within.
Admission, confession. Surrender.
Release.

Relief.

(I’m not supposed to want this, but I do.)


This is a post for the Kinktober prompt “domestic, at home.”


Image source: Flickr / Christian Schnettelker, CC BY 2.0, color editing by me

How I say yes

Large street art of a green octopus arm spelling 'yes' on a background of dark red waves

Content note: Vaguely described sex, with one explicit (and potentially gendered) term for genitals right at the end of this post.

I push the sugar bowl, the bag, the random thing between us to the side, opening a direct line. I turn more of my body towards you. I begin moving slower and more deliberately. Like other dances, this requires full-body focus, a sizzle of curiosity, an ounce of advance trust.

I play with my hair, my hem, my cutlery. I eat something and casually lick my fingers (are you paying attention?). I lean towards you, chin on hand, eyes sparking. Raise my eyebrow. I blush. I can’t stop grinning. My fingertips slide along my collarbone. I find some part of you that I can’t stop looking at — your mouth, your hands, your eyes, that little scar, the perfectly neat fade of your hair, that shadow where your skin disappears under carefully chosen cotton or leather. We haven’t touched each other, but this is indeed a dance.

***

After yet another accidental touch, I don’t draw back. Just wait and let the change ripple out underneath the surface. I release a few more square inches of arm or thigh into you, a little more weight (will you hold this?). I uncross my legs and recross them, weaving heels and calves between chairs and boots. I don’t pull down my skirt again. I lean closer; breath becomes audible. Pauses grow important as time disappears.

These are not accidents. I part my lips, a soft gasp in response to that particular touch of yours. I arch my neck, skin stretched over throat while my eyes close. A sigh, a shiver. I bend my head, bones bumpy beneath my hair. I find new surfaces on my body to offer to your gaze, your touch; to lean into you. I uncross my legs. I realize my hand is resting on your thigh but I don’t remember putting it there.

Getting up means untangling all of these layers and limbs and hoping the thread between us doesn’t break, survives the transition from here to there.

***

I let myself be slowly pushed into a wall, arch my back to allow your hand to pass behind me, tilt my head to give you access to my skin. My lips part, my tongue becomes impatient for yours, yet I stay where I am and wait for you to decide when (the most delicious anticipation). I shift my arm out of the way, unblocking the path of your hands on my body. I purr, moan, tremble in response to your touch.

I slowly sink back, onto the bed, the sofa, the nameless surface under us while we keep kissing. My legs drop open at the slightest nudge. My hands fall away, useless, forgotten. My hips roll towards your hand, your thigh, finding the angle that is just right, right now.

Head arched all the way back, eyes closed. Heels finding root, hands grabbing for a hold somewhere, anywhere. Cunt pushing into you. Fuck. Fuck.

“Yes!”


I’ve recently read a few posts and articles that seemed to imply that ‘consent’ in the context of sex and kink means ‘asking for and granting permission for every single step in a specific formula of speech.’ I believe that is an utter misunderstanding of how consent and communication work in real life. I hope this piece proves that there are many other ways to say “yes” than just words. I have done all of these things, usually more than once, although probably not in this exact order and perhaps not every single one with the same person. And while this particular piece of writing doesn’t have a strong emphasis on pain or on an obvious power dynamic, the experiences it describes all happened in a BDSM context. 

(That said, despite my love for nonverbal communication — I am a dancer after all —, I’m still a huge fan of and strong advocate for verbal negotiations when it comes to BDSM and/or sex. Partly for safety reasons, especially when partners are new to each other or unfamiliar with a technique. But mostly because talking about kink/sex with people I’m attracted to and who are attracted to me is fucking hot.)


Image source: Flickr/Phil Roeder (CC BY 2.0), cropped and color edited by me

A bouquet of hickeys

Close-up of light pink rhododendron flowers with areas of dark red spots.

I had found her at work, between orders and phones and endless complaints. I was delighted: finally a project worth my energy! So I spent weeks dropping hints at queer culture in straight coworker company, trying to verify if she really was what she looked like, in her awful 90s platform sneakers, baggy sweaters, and shaved hair: a dyke. Trying to subtly convey to her that I was a dyke, too, even if my hoodies were slightly more girly than hers.

I don’t remember what ultimately settled that matter, but eventually there was confirmation: she was indeed a dyke. So here we were, dykes both of us! And she even was butch enough for me to be attracted to her! And I had a feeling she might be attracted to me as well.

***

I don’t remember how exactly she ended up in my bed (I suppose alcoholic beverages at the local gay hang-out and very broad hints on my part were involved), but one summer night she did. I do remember it was a weekday, though. I do remember I had work the next day. An afternoon shift, but work nonetheless.

So here we were, in my bed, and she found out that I really liked how she applied her lips and tongue and teeth to my neck, gently at first and more forcefully soon after. And I found out that I kept wanting more and more of that, being the mostly unacknowledged masochist I was back then. So I kept asking her for more, and she happily delivered. I don’t remember much else about that night. Just me sprawled out on my back, neck arched in bliss, skin expanding to make more room for her. Just her leaning over me, mumbling how amazing I was, hot breath damp on my throat. Just the sharp pain of suction on my flesh, needles of blood rushing up to my surface. Eventually, we fell asleep.

***

My first glance into the mirror the next day immediately added urgent items to my to-do list, right after “have coffee” and “send her home” and definitely before “go to work”:

Assure my roommates that I had not been assaulted. Find a t-shirt with a high neckline. Discover that it doesn’t cover much of anything. Find a scarf to wear to the drugstore. Buy the most well-covering foundation available that at least vaguely matches my skin tone. Return home. Apply several layers of foundation to neck. Discover that this still doesn’t cover everything. Despair slightly. Decide that not obviously looking like I had been strangled was probably the best I could get. Put on scarf on top of flaky beige foundation layers despite the summery temperatures. Wait for the train. Pray that no one at work asks any questions.

And finally: Decide the hassle of the unexpectedly-expanded to-do list has still been worth the pleasures of the night before. And: Start being amused that it never even occurred to me that all the gorgeous kissing and biting and sucking would leave a whole bouquet of hickeys in various shades of scary purple scattered all over my neck.

(We were more careful with the hickeys after that. Because I did invite her back into my bed, even though we decided to remain mostly undercover at work.)


 

This week’s Kink of the Week prompt was “love bites.” 

 


Image source: Wikimedia Commons

Boots and all

Close-up of a pair of Corcoran jump boots worn by someone (wearer not pictured)

Content note: This post has descriptions of boot licking in the context of erotic D/S play.

The first time I curl up on the ground, my hot forehead leaning into the cool leather of her heavy boots, I know this is where I belong. At her feet, one of my hands cupping the heel of her boot like I sometimes cup her neck in a caress (in that exquisite place by her shirt collar where hair is fading into skin), the other hand loosely tucked underneath my body on the hard ground.

There’s no heated passion, no burning humiliation, just a deep sense of being in the right place. Of being right, exactly as I am.

This is not about ownership or exclusivity. I don’t belong to her, but I have no doubt I belong in this moment, created and shared with her. We have no claim on each other’s heart, but I know I have a place in hers as she has one in mine. And we have this.

She reaches down, pets my head with a warm hand, softly tells me I look very pretty down there. Down here, where I’m at peace. Where I don’t worry whether I’m doing everything right, whether I could, should be better than I am. Where I just am, and where that’s enough. Where that’s more than just enough. Where I never want to leave.

The welt of her sole presses up into my brow, my nose nestled along the curve of the boot. My field of vision is filled with blurry black leather, matte rows of stitching, perfect shiny roundness meeting hard-edged rubber, the floor gray in the background. My nostrils fill with the scent of leather and a faint note of sharpness from the shoe polish I’ve rubbed into it the day before, and my lips fall open. Something shifts. My exhale caresses her boot, my inhale draws in more of its delicious smell. My vulva is expanding along with my lungs, waking up, getting alert like a brain reacting to the first hit of coffee aroma in the morning air. Calm and contentment flip over into hunger, intensity heats up within me, between us.

My lips open a bit wider, I angle my head as if leaning towards her mouth for a slow-motion kiss. The corner of my mouth softly makes contact with the leather, and I sigh. She groans. I hadn’t realized she’s still watching me. I shiver, stay right where I am, and add an ounce of weight to my presence, just enough so she can feel it. She bends forward in her chair, leans down to me, grabs my neck, hard. I stiffen under her hand, let out a small whimper of want. “You want to lick it, don’t you?”

I don’t look up at her, just give a small, breathless nod.

“Say it.”

I close my eyes, momentarily overcome with embarrassment for the force of my desire. Swallow my shame and whisper, “Yes, sir.”

“‘Yes, sir’ what?” She wants more than that. I know. I just wanted her to say it.

And now I have to say it. I take a fortifying breath. “Yes, sir, I want to lick your boot.” My voice is still small and a bit unsteady. I swallow again. “Please, sir.” No more hiding. Here, this is all of my desire, all of its urgency, all of my hope that you’ll want this, too. Asking for it makes me want it even more, as if hearing myself say what I want only makes me fully recognize the fierceness of my hunger.

“Do it.” Her voice rough with the emotion of this command. She gives my neck a final clench, then takes her hand away. I know she’s watching me now, can feel her gaze on my skin.

I feel very exposed. Very vulnerable. And very drawn to all the delicious leather in front of me that is filled by her. I touch my lips to the leather again, reconnecting with where I had been. I nuzzle my head at her boot, finding the right angle, inhaling her scent. Take a deep breath and then lick a bold, wet, wide stripe across the toe to the outside, making sure she can see my tongue as she feels it pressing into her foot. She groans, hisses, “Oh, fuck!” and that is all the satisfaction I need. There’s no hiding for her now, either. To me, she is as naked in her desire as I am in mine before her, even though she is fully dressed and I’m barely wearing anything anymore.

I draw my tongue back into my mouth, swallow the hint of street dust I’ve just licked off her boot, wet my lips so they will glide across the leather more smoothly, then lick her boot again, again, again, caressing all the curves and edges with my lips and tongue, tilting my head, draping myself around her so I can reach everywhere, following the shape of the leather in one long, long kiss. Her boots are not a barrier between us, they are a body part of hers. And I make sure she feels that I can feel it. We both know this is an act of pure sex, for both of us, and it doesn’t matter at all whether anyone else can see that, too.

“You look so fucking hot down there.” Her voice floats down to me, grabbing me in a rough caress.

I smile, thank you, sir, and keep licking. My breath gets harder and harder, moans float across the leather along with my tongue. My one hand is clinging onto the back of her foot, anchoring me in her, my other hand is splayed out, fingers pressing into the ground, arm muscles taut with the tension building in me, my whole body. I’m very, very turned on by now, from nothing but my tongue on her boot and her reactions to that, which I can sense more than I can see any of them. This alone might get me off, but I don’t really care whether I come or not at this point because all I care about right now is that she knows just how much I want her, exactly as she is.

Boots and all.


This is a post for the #Kinktober prompt “boot licking.”


Image source: Flickr/deejayqueue, CC BY-SA 2.0 (I love this photo of a pair of worn-in Corcoran jump boots a lot (the colors!), except for that scuff on the toe that I want to polish away very, very badly…)

Getting to the point

Close-up of a sewing needle stuck through a layer of threads on a roll of sewing thread

Content note: This post contains detailed descriptions of getting pierced and doing needle play, and talks about blood in an erotic context. The interpersonal dynamics shown here are quite messy at times, because that is what they were.

She is a friend and long-term unrequited crush of mine and has a penchant for pushing needles through other people’s flesh, followed by a barbell or ball-closure ring. Making out with her is not an option since she “doesn’t see me that way,” but piercing is an intimacy she is willing to share with me.

She does my navel first. I go to her place, her room in a shared apartment, in a house that has seen better days. She sits me down in a worn-out armchair, then sets out her equipment around me. She kneels before me, between my spread legs, comfortably takes charge. Puts on gloves, sprays disinfectant, makes dots for orientation, hands me a mirror to check. Yes. Clamps my skin in a pair of medical forceps, uncomfortable but not painful. Sits back on her haunches, smiles up at me, gives me a moment. Still yes. Tells me to breathe, then pushes the needle through, into my moan. I’m not even sure it hurt, but it’s definitely intense. A bit more fiddling, almost like an aftermath, and the ring is where I want it. We both grin, collaborators in this act of self-determination. I can’t imagine doing any of this with a stranger, in a shop. We’ve built this trust in each other over years, and you can’t replace that with an exchange of expertise and money.

It is all very romantic to me.

***

Of course I come back for more.

Something about her makes me want to push my boundaries, face my fears, so I give her my mouth next. It doesn’t get any closer to kissing than this. Same house, same room, same chair, but this time she sits right in front of me, at eye level. I’m nervous, even though I know what to expect in terms of the mechanics. But this is my face, my mouth; so close to my breath, my voice. This is half on the inside, and that makes a difference. It really doesn’t get any closer to kissing than this. I trust her, though, implicitly. I wouldn’t be sitting in this chair if I didn’t. So she does it again. Gloves, disinfectant, dot, mirror. A ritual of consent. I do. Clamps, grin, breath, push, moan. I feel a little awkward because she’s still holding onto the forceps attached to my lip, stuck through with a needle, and I’m afraid I might drool. A reassuring smile appears on her face, so close to mine, and I let go of my worry. She captures another bead inside a ring inside my flesh. I’m giggly with pride and endorphins after, and she looks at me as if I just gave her a gift.

***

I find my first self-identified butch lover, and everything is different after that. She knows who she is, and suddenly I know who I am. Sex finally makes sense, and I’m rapidly shedding shame and shyness.

I’m not quite ready to do anything that explicitly is what I think is BDSM then, but I am ready to let her pierce my nipple because getting another piece of permanent jewelry offers just enough plausible deniability. We do a lot of things that offer just enough plausible deniability, even though the complete lack of innocence oozes through every conversation we have about them. Before she comes over, I make sure to put ice cubes into the freezer because she has told me we can apply them beforehand to numb the pain a little. This feels like an important part of the whole thing. She arrives, we chat for a bit, start making out (as we do), then interrupt ourselves. We have a plan to follow. I sit down on the carpet in my room, my back resting against my bed frame. She goes through her version of the ritual: gloves, disinfectant, dots, forceps. The pain of that clamp on my nipple is intense, and I need a moment to adjust. I only remember the ice cubes when she already holds the shiny needle between her fingertips, her eyes glinting with a hint of malicious pleasure. Within a split second, I decide not to say anything — everything is right the way it is, even if it’s not what we originally planned. I nod at her to go ahead and she does, her sharp metal piercing through my sensitive flesh. It hurts, but it’s also good in a way I don’t have words for, so I just moan again. I secretly like the soft pulse in my aching nipple when she fucks me afterwards, and I come hard on her hand, the same hand that has hurt me before. When I mention the forgotten ice later, she looks at me as if I’m really hardcore. I’m not, but I like that she thinks I am.

***

I am at one of my first BDSM play parties. In one of the rooms, a bare-breasted butch sits in a medical chair, relaxing into the padded back and armrests. She is surrounded by other women, some of them high femme, others more androgynous, all of them wielding small, sharp bits of steel, moving around her, weaving her into an invisible web of power and connection. Rivulets of blood are running down her chest and arms; she’s laughing. I stand in the doorway, watching them for a long while, speechless with awe, profoundly touched. I never cross the threshold into that room because I instinctively know that would be too much, too close. I cannot interfere with their magic, cannot disrupt the intensity between them.

After that, I keep thinking of blood with a yearning that goes beyond any words I have to describe it.

***

I know I’m going to to something about this yearning, eventually. I just have to find the right person, the right time, the right place.

***

Everything in me says it’s him. He is already making some of my longest-held dreams come true, and I’m quite infatuated with him. He also has eyes that light up with sparks when he talks about piercing others. So I ask him to do this with me, and he accepts. We go into the room, sit with the others, listen, watch, learn. The first drop of blood (not mine) appears, and my cunt and heart clench at how intensely erotic it is. I feel like my whole history resonates in this moment.

When it is time, we choose the corner where the sunlight falls through the window onto my naked arm as I sit on a table there. He puts on gloves, disinfects my skin. Just looks at my arm for a while, ponders. Pulls apart the wrapper, holds the cap of the hypodermic needle in his fingers. Strokes me with his other hand, palm fading to fingertips, feeling for the right spot, then settles into a firm grip. By then, everything but him and me is a fuzzy blur, the other people in the room faded to a background hum. As he finally pushes the needle into, then through my skin, my only thought is, finally. Arousal blooms through me, a long, deep exhale. I sink into subspace almost instantly, can feel myself opening up to this and everything else he may want to give me. I didn’t plan this, but I’m not surprised, and I’m not resisting this wave pulling me under. I can deal with the consequences of my feelings later. Right now, all I want is every little bit of this moment. Another needle. My eyes close and my head falls back as I breathe out; a response, an invitation. Yes. More. Please. His thigh glows heat into mine, my whole body attuned to him, even though he barely touches me. I never want this to end. There is so much that could be in the space between us. I drift into a moment of doubt, suddenly not sure if I’m imagining things, if he even wants me to be where I am. I gather myself, pull up from the depths a bit, then open my eyes to show him how I feel about this, about him; to silently ask, Do you want this? Do you want me? In response, his finger pushes my softness into the narrow line of unrelenting steel running through it, the one he put there. Dull pain radiates into my brain, pools heat between my legs. Oh god. Fuck yes. He watches me while I absorb the intensity, my spine softly undulating in pain and desire. Then he adds the third needle, sharply pushing through me a final time; I groan in delighted pain. I want to kiss him, badly. So badly. The ache of my yearning for him is delicious, and I don’t even want any immediate fulfilling of it. He once again presses his thumb into the places of my skin that are stretched across the needles, more, more of the same, and I keep melting. He keeps watching me. I realize I could probably come from this. But this is neither the time nor the place for that, so I swallow the urge to try. Right now, it’s enough to know I could. His eyes sparkle in sadistic glee, and I purr. Eventually, he gently tells me he’s going to take out the needles now, that we have to start wrapping this up. I’m surprised how sad I am at the thought, even though I know it’s a good decision. I ask him to make me bleed as he removes the tiny blades from my flesh, and he does.

A single drop of red, red blood trickles down my arm. I could cry with the beauty of all of this, and I don’t need any jewelry to stay behind to remind me that I really am a fucking romantic.


This is a catch-up post for a # Kinktober prompt I skipped before. The original prompt for this day was “branding,” but since I don’t have anything to say about that from either experience or observation, I chose to write about my early encounters with piercing and needle play as a different activity that also involves deliberately breaking the skin (and that may leave permanent marks). And it sometimes comes with bonus blood!

Obligatory disclaimer: I’m not responsible (or liable) for any of your choices. Do your own research and make your own risk assessment if you ever consider doing anything like this. My own information-gathering, decision-making, and consent-establishing process may not be entirely written into this story, but I knew exactly what I my risks were at all times.


Update (12 October 2019): This post has been chosen as one of the top 3 for the Wicked Wednesday prompt “piercings.” Marie Rebelle, who selected the top 3, said about it:

“This is an older post which I have approved to be linked, and I am so glad I did. The way K&P talks about getting her navel pierced, and then later her lip and nipple, makes it sound like a love affair, like romance, and that exactly what she says too when she talks about blood and needle play. This is a fascinating post, which the moment I started reading it, I couldn’t stop.”

Thank you!


Image source: Pixabay (cropped by me)