Sunday, February 21, 2010
Sunday, February 14, 2010
Happy Valentine's Day, all. (Who doesn't love ole' Cupid getting his [her?] nosey butt beat?)
As for Valentine's, ours was fumbled well in advance of today when my wife and I got an email out of the blue from my wife's grandfather informing us he'll be coming to town and to pick him up on the 14th. Not sure the man realizes what day this is... So my fancy dinner plans were shot and all the romance set aside in lieu of our visitor.
However, yesterday was my lovely bride's birthday, so to honor the occasion we drove out to the Lair to hang out with friends and check out the scene--usually wild and crazy on Valentine's (mostly vanillas out for a "spicy" evening with a lot of sex, not much in the way B or D or any S&M). Last night was no exception. It seems, for whatever reason, last night was femme dom night with a lot of older, overweight subby men (not that there's anything wrong with that). Since my wife is a switch she took the plethora of scenes going on with male bottoms as a chance to take notes.
At the appropriate time I grabbed her, went on stage, dropped her over my knee and gave her a lengthy and strenuous spanking. (Not too strenuous--she's been sick and still not feeling fully up to snuff.) All OTK, all hand, somewhat intense at times. It was a nice short scene worthy of her birthday with a full compliment of the appropriate number of swats at the end, with careful focus on her sweet spots. Working around the red fishnets were a challenge, but I think I got through to her.
Happy Valentine's Day! I hope you had good vanilla sex, kinky sex, spankings, smackings, bondage or whatever else floats your boat today & tonight.
Sunday, February 7, 2010
That’s a great title for a story…if you want to make sure no one reads it!
So I have been in Beijing all week. At dinner the other night my host informs me he was a professional singer in a former life, having sang Chinese opera and even performing for the President of North Korea. He asked if I enjoyed Karaoke. I told him, having been a singer myself in a former life, I did take to Karoake once in a while, just to goof off. My host asked if I liked Asian Karaoke, emphasis on “Asian.” Well, pretty much all my Karaoke experiences were Asian, having taken place in Japan, Korea, Taiwan and Singapore. “Yes,” I said, “I like Asian Karaoke.”
A few hours later we were pulling to the Karaoke bar, a large, five-story structure off a main street near the Olympic Stadium, nicknamed “The Bird’s Nest.” On the outside of the building were 30-foot tall backlit images of sexy women and the name of the building above in glowing, shimmering letters read, “Men’s Club.” Uh-oh, I thought. What have I gotten myself into? What is ‘Asian Karaoke’? A euphemism?”
Allow me to pause in my story for a moment: I travel on business. A lot. I’ve been all over Europe, Asia, Southeast Asia, the Middle East and the Americas and Australia. I’ve been invited to brothels, “barber shops,” “massage parlors,” “men’s spas” and any other euphemism you can think of for sex den. If I’ve gone, I sit in the corner sipping a drink. I’m not one for cheating or, for that matter, casual, pointless sex with diseased sex workers. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, other than the usual exploitation, etc.
So we go in, get our Karaoke parlor, grab a seat and are served drinks. Everything is looking pretty karaoke to me, with microphones and a TV screen displaying the titles of Asian tunes I can’t read the name of as well as Western hits raning from Lady Gaga to Elvis. But we’re just sitting around sipping drinks. I’m guessing it’s so we can allow the liquor to take affect, reducing our inhibitions, so we can sing unabashedly.
Instead, a few minutes later, a woman in street clothes in her early 40s comes in to talk to my host. My Korean friend, sitting next to me, mutters under his breath to me, “The madame.” Uh-oh. Madame??? What have I gotten myself into? My mind races with the implications. A few minutes later a line-up of 10-12 girls come in, plastic heels clacking on the floor like Clydesdales. They line up in front of the Karaoke equipment and stand there. What the…? Each have a number pinned to them. I realize my host and Korean friend are looking at me, expectantly. I’m the guest, so I’m supposed to pick.
I point. “Her,” I say to one that looks strikingly like Tia Carrera. What have I done? No one else picks. Then they all leave. What’s going on? “Why didn’t you pick?” I whisper to my Korean friend. “I have a regular,” he tells me. Soon, my host has a girl sitting next to him, pouring him his drink and demurely touching his arm. My friend has another young beauty, also at his side. Strangely, I’m feeling a bit hurt now. Where’s my girl? I wonder, while simultaneously thinking to myself, What? NOW you’re competitive? Butt hurt? But before long, Tia came in and plopped herself down next to me, pressing up against my side. She spoke not a word of English.
Eventually, the singing began. My host was an amazing singer, doing both formal Chinese opera to perfection as well as love ballads. He was a pro. My Korean friend sang Korean hits—even a rap!—and did okay, but he was no pro. I started off with a Garth Brooks tune (Friends in Low Places) to the surprise of everyone and then went onto a classic Karaoke standard, Suspicious Minds. That Tsing Tao beer had gone right through me. I need the toilet. I asked the server to point the way. Immediately, Tia jumped up like she’d been shocked with a cattle prod, grabbed my hand and dragged me out the door.
Oh shit! I thought. She thinks I’m ready for a little fucky-fucky. What am I going to do? I can’t insult my host, who’s obviously paid for this girl based on my acknolwedgement that I was familiar with Asian Karaoke, but I wasn’t about to be taken upstairs for a rubdown…or more.
Instead, she led me to the bathroom door and left me there. Ah. She’s just doing her job. She won’t leave my side. As I turned in my beer rental at the urinal, an overeager bathroom attendant began polishing my shoes underneath me—while I pissed! I really had to go, so it was a loooong one, and soon he had a hot towel on the back of my neck and was giving me a back rub—at the urinal! “Enough!” I said, but he didn’t speak a word of English. He pumped liquid soap into my hand at the sink and offered yet another hot towel. Flummoxed, I pulled an RMB $100 note from my wallet, leaving it in his tip tray. (Later it dawned on me I’d tipped the guy about USD $15! That was one expensive piss!)
Tia was waiting for me in the hall and took me back to our parlor, where we sang a while longer. The evening was getting late and my host disappeared with his girl. Uh-oh. This is where it all goes down. Soon, my friend and his little girl will leave and I’ll be left to awkwardly try to communicate with Tia that I’d like nothing more than an actual backrub, no happy ending please. Instead, my host came back. It must’ve been just a bathroom break.
Finally, host and friend stand up to indicate it’s time to go. Are we going upstairs? Is it make fucky-fucky time? Will I have to embarrass myself by informing my host I really don’t know what real Asian Karaoke is all about? Instead, we head for the door, the girls in hot pursuit. Oh shit! They’re following us to the car! It’s not a brothel! They’re going back to our hotel rooms!
We reached the door and they gave us polite hugs and waved goodbye. Whew! We got into my host’s car and headed back for the hotel. It was nothing more than a hostess bar, where girls are paid to sidle up to you, tell you how young and handsome you are, how strong you must be, and what a good singer you are. I’d been to a few over the years in Korea and Singapore. Not dens of sex, just places for men to feel better about themselves, I guess.
In America we call that Hooters.
Thursday, February 4, 2010
I haven’t told Erica this yet, but I hate scenes like ours last Saturday. At least I do before they start. For me, my job as a top is to fulfill my bottom, giving her exactly what she needs, taking her to places she craves to go. That’s why each of my private scenes begin a few days prior with the question from me: What do you need?
I take time to organize the scene in my mind. What implements will I use? How will the scene play out? What mind-fuckery will I incorporate, if any. In past blog posts I’ve likened this to a script or symphony, with room for improvisation along the way. So when Thursday rolled around last week and Erica said she had nothing in mind, that she was ready to go with whatever I had to bring, I was at a loss. Certainly, I was eager to play. It has been almost two months. I needed this. But a blank slate, a clean sheet? Notsomuch.
I was feeling a bit anxious by the time the four of us (my wife, Erica, J her boyfriend and myself) got to the Lair. I had no real “inspiration” for the scene. I was, as I’ve said, itching to play, but I didn’t know where to go with it. My bag was over laden with options because I didn’t have a specific plan: floggers, canes, nasty things, blades, paddles, straps—they all were there. I even threw in clothespins, a blindfold and my notorious peppermint oil. It was a kitchen sink of play equipment.
As we usually do, we found ourselves in the kitchen off the room where Erica and I like to play. There’s always a platter of home-baked cookies and a selection of candy. I love the Reece’s Pieces, so I stand by the bowl and grab a few, popping them into my mouth one-by-one as we talk, people watch and catch up with other denizens of the Lair.
Something came over me and I took two of the brown and orange candies and I offered them to Erica, to be nice. She politely declined. I looked her in the eye, feeling toppy, and said, “Eat them.” “No,” she replied, firmly. I didn’t break my gaze: “Eat them,” I said, lowering my voice an octave. She refused. At this point, J was looking at me with a bit of alarm on his face. I dropped the subject, thinking he might intervene, and went to my cache of implements and dropped the candies in a safe and clean spot there.
Later, as our scene played out, I knew I’d use those candies to push Erica. She was laid out on the padded table, naked, our scene well into an intense but not dark session, over an hour in at that point, when I grabbed the candies and proffered them to her, foisting them in her face. “Are you ready to eat them now?” The first time I asked, she gave a resounding negative. The second time, after a few flurries of blows to the buttocks, she told me to fuck off. The third time, she offered a more demure, “No.”
Each time, I would intensify my barrage on her backside, letting her know nonverbally that her response was what was driving the action forward in the way it was. I told her that her responses were causing her scene to turn out the way it was, not me. I launched into a rather unyielding and intense sequence, Erica crying out a few times. Once again, I asked her if she was ready to eat the diminutive candies. “No, thank you,” she responded this time. Ah! She was caving! Good!
I intensified my assault, but then was compassionate and cared to her sweet spots, made raw by my forceful caning and strapping. “See?” I said, “This is what happens when you aren’t so rude.” Or something like that. It’s been almost a week now, so excuse me for not remembering the exact words. Again with the hand, hard and rapid.
I grabbed the candies again: “Erica, I want you to eat these now,” I said. She was panting, in tears. “Okay,” she said, her face pressed into the furry, soft blanket I always lay down on the cold vinyl of the table. I get down so my face is next to hers and without a pause, I popped them into my mouth, noisily munching them open-mouthed in her ear. “Whaaaa…?” she muttered and burst out laughing. “Do you think I’d make you eat those?” I said. “What horrible thing to do! I wouldn’t make you do that!” Erica burst into a fresh set of tears and we proceeded to the “finale,” my word for the final assault, typically with my leather paddle so thick it looks (and feels!) like wood. To show her my appreciation for her offering to eat the treats, I spanked her hard, very hard, with my hand instead.
But I wasn’t done with the mind-fuckery. Oh, no. At the end, I asked her to tell me how many spanks I had given her, because when I use the paddle she counts. She always counts. “I don’t know!” she exclaimed in anguish. “You didn’t tell me to count!” I reminded her finales always have counts. When she guessed wrong to the number (it was 31) I told her she was lucky, but now she’d have to endure an additional punishment—this time with the dreaded paddle. But she was still a good girl, having offered to eat the Reece’s Pieces, so I only gave her five, tissue-compressing, bone-jarring full-swing smacks of the paddle.
Afterward, we talked about those silly candies and my insistence on her eating them. “I didn’t want you to actually eat them,” I said. “I just wanted you to give in.” We both agreed it ended up being a pretty decent way to structure a scene at the spur of the moment. “I wouldn’t’ve done that if I thought it would have been a genuine issue with you, Erica,” I said. She acknowledged that with many she would have remained stubborn just because she’s no true subby, but that she did it to show how much she trusted me.
In the end, a great scene. What started out as a blank slate ended up being not only a good physical and mental session, but one in which our trust and respect for one another were displayed to each.