Tag Archives: D/S

Oh, boy…

Inside of an abandoned building with several columns and crossbeams, stylized in black and white

Content note: This post describes parts of a consensual BDSM scene (consent is mostly implied). It contains age play, rough body play, D/S, an unplanned gender switch, knife play, and boot play. Cocks are mentioned twice; none of them belong to cis men.

Perhaps I could have known. Perhaps I should have paid more attention to the subtle shift in my attitude once I had changed into cargo shorts instead of my usual skirt or dress for this scene. Perhaps I shouldn’t have dismissed the determination in my jaw or the trace of stomp in my walk through the hallway before we began.

As it was, however, it caught me by surprise.

Our dialogue had spun a loose story of me being in a place where I knew I shouldn’t be and you being there in the hopes of taking advantage of that. It was dark there, and damp and gritty, and the sea was close. I felt young, much younger than my actual years. I was lonely, more lost than I liked, and yearning for someone to find me and tell me what to do. For someone to take care of me. Not out of pity, though, because pity meant someone would take away my power, and I wasn’t going to let anyone do that again. No, I wanted to be seen, to be chosen, to be considered worthy of attention and direction and affection. To be challenged into giving my best to someone who would know if it was. On the outside, however, I wore my disdain for the rules of propriety and tried to wrap myself in a rather threadbare cloak of “I don’t care.”

You were a mysterious stranger with an air of danger around you. I remember the dull gleam of your leather, your heavy boots, your solid stance. The way you looked up into my eyes as if you were actually taller than me.

“How old are you?” you asked.

“Old enough,” I spat back. I needed you to know that I was no clueless child; that I was in this risky place on purpose. That I had chosen this, even though I wasn’t quite sure what exactly ‘this’ was.

You took that response as the invitation it was and got right up into my face. There was some wrestling and then my hands were held together behind my back and my back was pushed against the wall.

Maybe it was the wave of stubbornness that had suddenly risen within me, covering the unexpected vulnerability that had pooled in my stomach and stuttered through my heart.

Maybe it was the way you took away my t-shirt and then made me put my leather vest back on over my bare skin.

Maybe it was the way you looked me in the eyes when you stepped on the toe of my boots, grinding down hard through the delicate layers upon layers of shiny black I had applied earlier with so much tenderness and patience. The exquisite cruelty that lay in the simultaneous recognition and destruction of my work was so beautifully heart-wrenching I almost cried.

None of this was what we usually did with each other. Except for your leather and my willingness to bare my heart to you. Except for our habit to never go where we had initially agreed to go because our scenes always developed a mind of their own. Still, this was unusual, even for us.

Maybe it was the sea. Maybe it was the stories that bubbled up in my memory, the waves of narrative ancestry pulling me under.

I don’t know what it was. But suddenly I was a lot closer to boy than to girl.

It registered with you even before I myself understood what was happening. You said something I have forgotten, then gave your suspicion of my cock an experimental squeeze through the denim. I responded with a gasp as I willed my body to fill your hand.

Then my mind became a kaleidoscope of shattered gender fragments, swirling around in many-layered patterns, never quite settling down again. I almost cried again a little later when you cut my satiny underwear to shreds, rawly torn between wanting to protect the girl I had initially brought to the scene, wanting to save the femme without losing the boy, desperately wishing I wouldn’t feel so utterly disloyal to myself no matter what I decided. Trying to be everything at once and failing to be anything but deeply unsettled by the unsolvable paradox of gender I had stumbled into. Deeply afraid your desire for my boy implied a rejection of my girl when she was less than perfectly girly. Furiously trying to anchor myself on the few solid places in that storm: your leather, the certainty of pain, and my tongue on your boots.

I never fully settled into boy, but I kept hovering close to it for the rest of this encounter. I never quite lost touch with femme, but also never got a hold of its comforting familiarity again that night. Girl floated away into irrelevance at some point. Eventually, I stopped caring and just became a head to lean against your thigh, a chest to dig a boot heel into, a tongue to wrap around your cock, a body to curl up at your feet, a mind at peace.


Wicked Wednesday... a place to be wickedly sexy or sexily wickedThis is a post for the Kinktober prompt “gender play.”

I’m also submitting it for the Wicked Wednesday prompt “out of character.”


Image source: MaxPixel, color edited by me.

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

All the girls I’ve been before

Punk girl with pastel pink hair in a faux leather jacket with studs and gloves with heart-shaped cut-outs.Punk girl with pastel pink hair in a faux leather jacket with studs and gloves with heart-shaped cut-outs.

Content note: This post describes various age-play headspaces, themes, and play dynamics. Several kinds of sexuality/BDSM (incl. blood play) are briefly mentioned as a part of that, but are not described in any detail. There is no mention of incest play or childhood abuse.

I’ve been an adult girl who was about eight years old; happy, curious, cute, giggly, and a bit shy. I’ve hid under blankets to be able to ask for what I wanted, and then I’ve got it, just like that. I’ve found out that saying what you need, deep down where it matters, feels very, very hard at first but then it also feels exciting and brave and afterwards you feel like you’ve won something important. I’ve said things I couldn’t say in any other voice. I’ve got permission to play, to not know, to cry, to need. I’ve boldly trusted my partner with my childish needs and desires and got so much love in return: cuddles and challenges, gold stars and pet names, near-endless patience and silly, silly jokes just for the two of us. I’ve never doubted that I mattered.

And then all of that became a distraction, an excuse, an easy way out of doing the things that were really hard. A way to avoid facing what needed facing. It became something I had to grow out of.

***

I’ve been an adult girl who was about sixteen years old; still curious and shy, with a secret heart full of hope for a boy who’d want to kiss me and ask me to dance. I’ve received hand-written love notes and adoring looks from a boy I liked. I’ve held hands and got breathless and trembling over the intensity of that. I’ve been looked at as if I was a most precious creature, as if this boy couldn’t believe I really said yes to their hands, their lips, their desire for me. I’ve shared first times, first steps into adulthood. I’ve been the awkward, ugly duckling who was suddenly transformed into a radiant, graceful swan under the gaze of a boy who loved me. I’ve been chosen and asked to dance by a prince, and it was everything I’d ever dreamed of, for a while.

And then I grew tired of teenage boys and fairy tales, because I needed an adult to work with me on a happily ever after in the real world. I needed to get off the princess pedestal and onto the ground and figure out how to dance there. (Also, the clock struck midnight and the prince shapeshifted into something that sadly didn’t respond to my magic anymore. But that is a different story.)

***

I’ve been an adult girl who was a different kind of sixteen years old; still curious, but also a lot more cynical about the world, and a lot less trusting of anyone. I’ve been a mess of barely articulate yearnings; hungry, and lonely, and in desperate need of belonging with someone. I’ve risked getting hurt on the off chance of being loved, over and over again. I’ve chosen to go where I wasn’t supposed to go and found exactly the kind of intense and dangerous connection I wanted, exactly the kind of challenge and acceptance I needed. I’ve broken my parents’ rules as I’ve followed the demands of my partners in crime. I’ve learned to tear open my heart for an irresistible stranger who chose me (me!); to spill its deep, red contents all over them while I absorb their impact, suck their cock, lick their boots, or let them make me bleed for real; then gather up the messy remains to take with me when daylight tells me it is time to leave again. I’ve learned that this usually hurts, a lot, but that it’s always, always worth it. I’ve learned that my heart is a sucker for hard and fast romance and that it is a resilient little fuck.

This is actually where it all started, all those years ago. And this is the one I’m not quite done with, apparently. Because this is the one I keep returning to whenever I find another irresistible stranger in a leather jacket who is just passing through town. (Because maybe, just maybe, one of them will keep coming back for me. And if they won’t — well, I know how to patch up my heart by now.)


I feel like I need to add some context for this one. The things I mention in this post are based on actual age play I’ve done at various points in my (and my partners’) adult life, but I’ve deliberately blurred the lines between different partners and situations. My goal here isn’t to tell the stories of specific scenes or to show how I make these kinds of age play work in the realm of real-life (and in-scene) consent, but to portray the different headspaces and emotional stories of the various girls I’ve been in a BDSM context. Because all the girls I’ve been before just have a lot of feelings.


I’m counting this as a catch-up post for one of the #Kinktober prompts I skipped before. The original prompt was “daddy kink.” And while I often appreciate daddy energy in others (and may write about that in the future), I chose to focus on age play more generally here, especially the girl side of that.

Wicked Wednesday... a place to be wickedly sexy or sexily wicked
I’m also submitting this post for this week’s Wicked Wednesday (the prompt was “dreams” – and this post is about several dreams come true), which is my first time participating in that. And while this piece is probably not technically erotica, I still think it fits that theme closely enough.


Image source: Pexels

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)