Thursday, March 28, 2013

Flash Fucktion: Waiting Upstairs

He was ready for her. The implements were out in his special room off the master bath. (Once, it had been a "hers" in a "his and hers" master bedroom closet set.) The room had been converted to a small dungeon, complete with tile-lined walls and floor, drain in the middle, metal D-rings that had been tied to the studs before the waterproof lining and tile went in. A plumber had asked him what the point was and He had made some remark about a wheelchair-bound in-law moving in, but later He realized how dumb that was. The master bedroom was on the second floor. C'est a vie. 

He had her custom leather and purple suede-lined restraints already clipped to the D-rings. A fold-out shelf was lined with implements ranging from a red leather dragon tongue to paddles of various sorts to vampire gloves. He had texted her earlier and told her to be prompt. He also told her to remove her clothes in the car, so she'd be forced to go from the driveway to the house completely naked. It was dark, so he wasn't worried about random strangers seeing her, it was more the mind fuck of the erotic humiliation.

Just then he heard the doorbell ring downstairs. He looked at the clock on the wall outside the dungeon room. She was right on time. He moved at a leisurely pace, taking it slow as he headed downstairs. He wanted her to have to stand outside, under the front entry light, squirming at her nakedness as he knew she would. He got to the door, unlatched it, and opened it slightly, looking out. "Please...!" she pleased, standing in the light completely nude. He eyed her sexy form. She held a small gym bag under one arm, her feet fidgeting like a small girl.

"Do you want to come in?" he asked, keeping the door open only a few inches. 

"Yes! Please?" she begged. He opened the door wide and let her in, closing it behind him and eying her up and down hungrily. She leaned in for a kiss, but he ignored the move and took the bag from her, setting it aside in the entry. 

"Upstairs..." He pointed. He got a glint in his eye, watching her sexy derrière as she nearly ran up the stairs. He joined her in the short hallway outside the dungeon-slash-closet eyes burning into hers. "Are you ready?" he asked huskily. She looked down at the floor, aware she was already getting wet, and nodded. 

He led her into the cool tile room, carefully wrapping the restraints around her wrists and ankles, tightening them just so, until she was spread eagled and standing in the middle of the room, her arms stretched wide out at shoulder height. He took a cane off the shelf and traced the tip of it along her lips, her breasts, her belly--then he walked around behind her and without warning or warm up lashed out and smacked her bottom six times in succession, each stinging impact progressively harder than the last. By the sixth, she nearly screamed out in the small room.

"Now I have your attention."


Tuesday, March 26, 2013

What Gets You Off?

Rarely do I talk about straight sex on this site (hmm...have I talked about sex at all on here? sure I must've). But I was thinking about things that get me off, things that are just hardwired into me that when that button is pushed I get just...well...excited.

Things like this:

Just the simple hint of an ass cheek peeking out from beneath a pair of short-shorts. Hot. Gets me every time.

Or this: How can you not love a moment when a pair unfettered breasts, particularly those with lovely hardened nipples point your way?

Lizzie is an unadulterated exhibitionist. She loves to flaunt what she's got. Not so much as a tease (though I think she loves to do that, too) but just as a means of showing off. If she could, she'd be risqué (or naked) most of the time. Those nipples... 

Then there's this:

The Catholic School Girl. Always a classic. Slutty or innocent. A hot mess or cute. Aggressive or shy. Anyway I can get it, the Catholic School Girl could 

This, of course, also leads to...

...another archetype: the lolita. Of course, "Lolita" refers to Nabokov's famous book and infamous Roman Polanski film of the same name about a hebephile in love and in a sexual relationship with an underage girl.

Like the Catholic School Girl look, the innocent Lolita or cocksure pretend innocent is another fairly typical desire. 

Oddly, I'm not into ageplay at all, but a girl, adopting the mode of young innocent in trouble, makes for a great roleplay scene. "Lolita" has taken on its own meaning in Japan where girls dress up in frilly, short-skirted outfits. It's become it's own Harajuku/cosplay genre there. Even a brand of Lolita™ clothing.

Next on my Get Off list is:

Any kind of BDSM imagery, particularly when it involves power exchange, erotic humiliation or submission.

A woman in bondage? Hot. A woman being punished (to her liking), even hotter. I remember when some friends at the Lair turned me onto a fantastic DVD title of hot, hardcore BDSM/sex. I still enjoy that title, Fashionistas. BDSM, giving pain and sex, functioning seamlessly, are a perfect thing to me, though with most people I play with the sex part is omitted.

The erotic power exchange. Beautiful.

Then I'll throw in a couple of odd ones. I love women. I love almost everything about them. I love kind of all of a woman. But here are a few, ahem, subgenres that really tickles my fancy:

Why these? Couldn't tell you. But over the years, they've been recurring themes. Makes me twitchy. Love it. Just love it.

You might think it's weird I listed out what gets me off. Okay. Cool. I don't really care.

So let me go down the list of what LIzzie has pulled off for me thusfar:

Ass cheek shorts (that I bought for her, then she started going crazy buying her own...): check

Braless tops, hard nipples: check

Catholic School Girl uniform: definitely check! (Oh, yeah!)

Lolita outfit: check

Power Exchange? Bondage? BDSM? Check, check, check.

Uh...getting off watching Fashionistas with me: check

Superfuckinghot cameltoe: check

Beautiful, full, puffy, perky breasts: check

So 10 for 10. Not bad. Not bad at all. Thanks my pet for providing me with all the fantasies I've had thus far. We've got a lot more to go. But that's yet another post, isn't it?

Better yet, Fellow Kinkster: what gets you off?

Wednesday, March 13, 2013

Flash Fucktion: Begging for More

"Daddy, can you get me off again?"

This was the start of it. This is what set him off. "What?" he looked up from his laptop at her. "What did you say?" She straightened her pencil skirt as a sort of fidget.

"I'd like you to get me off again," she said, looking suddenly more sheepish than she had a moment earlier.

Slowly, very slowly, he closed the laptop and looked at her over his reading glasses. "You'd like me to get you off again, you insatiable slut?" Again, she fidgeted with her skirt. 

"Yes, sir."

"Go get a piece of paper and a marker and bring them to me." A look of puzzlement on her face, she dashed out of the room to do as she was told. She brought the paper and Sharpie to him. "Give those to me." Testy. He grabbed the paper and marker and said, "I'll write down what you need." 

She stamped a heeled foot down on the cream colored carpet in disgust and he glanced up at her—for just a second—to let her know he'd registered her bratty move. She watched quietly as he wrote briefly onto the paper, capping the marker and setting it aside. He folded the paper in half. "Come here."

That was never a good order in moments like this.

She approached, and to her surprise he hiked up her skirt, revealing lacy gray panties. He jammed his fingers between her legs roughly, spreading her labia through the cloth and pushing hard against her clit. "So you want to get off?" She mewed in response. "I'll get you off." He was hurting her pussy, but she loved it so, his dry, rough skin adding its own tactile sensation. She began to undulate her hips and found herself starting to grind against his hand. She closed her eyes but then was surprised again when he stopped suddenly.


He slapped her face. She expelled air, both out of surprise and desire. He reached between her legs and slapped her pussy through the panties, slapping it again and again. He yanked her panties down and slapped it harder, forcing her legs apart. "You dirty... little...  insatiable... little... slut." With each pause he smacked her wet lips for punctuation.

He took the sign and put it in her mouth. "Go stand in the corner, slut." She huffed, holding the sign in her teeth, as she stomped to the corner. "And don't you touch the walls or look around!" he growled. She stopped moving and could hear him unlock his iPhone. He was obviously setting a timer for her corner time. Ugh!

He left the room. She hated it when he left the room, leaving her to stew in her own juices, so to speak. He'd gotten her off earlier. Why couldn't she just be happy with what he gave her? Why did she always want more? More attention. More affection. More...uh...orgasms. Here she was, brooding over her big mouth, wondering how long she'd be there. UGH! I hate corner time! she wanted to scream. Why am I doing this? Why don't I just move! How do I allow myself to be put in this position and—she huffed out more air—why do I crave it?

This internal dialog went on and on until she was so frustrated with herself, the situation and him that she began to weep, hot tears streaming down her cheeks in embarrassment and frustration. She could hear him shuffle back into the room and settle down into his smoky brown leather arm chair. She heard the phone unlock again, heard a few polite clicks. He was turning off the alarm before it made a racket, or was granting her a reprieve from her total time. 

"Turn around." She did as instructed, the sign still in her mouth. "Get on your hands and knees." Again, she did as she was told. "Do you know what I wrote on that sign?" She nodded her head. She'd tried to see, but he managed to block her from seeing anything more than the last word, me. "Come to me and beg."

She crawled toward him, a sign she had not read dangling from her lips, about to beg him to do something she did not know. Whatever he had written would be her fate. As she crawled on all fours she noticed that beside him on the arm chair was his long, metal paddle.  

She was in for an exquisite punishment.

Wednesday, March 6, 2013

Burlesque Queen Music Video

A friend posted about this music video on Facebook the other day. It's a video for "Disintegration" by Monarchy with Dita Von Teese. Don't know if you like this kind of music or not, but the video is charged with sexual imagery, retro kinkiness and I found it all quite a bit arousing. 

Dita Von Teese is a burlesque queen known for her vintage corsets and gowns. The band's Andrew Armstrong says of the video, "She's a 1950s style housewife stuck in a toxic, dry relationship. She's fantasizing, releasing herself in a dream world of lovers."

Check out the video here.

Sunday, March 3, 2013


For quite a while now I've wanted to get a vasectomy and because of life, work, travel and everything else, hadn't had the opportunity. Well, the time finally came. I went in for my pre-interview ("Do you realize if you have a vasectomy you won't be able to have kids again?" Really?) The procedure described in detail, expectations clearly detailed in terms of post-surgery, I signed my ability to procreate away and set up the appointment for surgery. 

Another business trip got in the way, so I rescheduled. The day arrived and Lizzie and I drove to the urologist's offices, preshaved and ready to go (actually, I did nothing different from my typical manscaping). I got laid out on the table and the 350 lb. Samoan medical assistant (I assumed he was there to hold me down?) got my dangly bits ready to go with surgical drape and all. He turned on the radio, told me I could plug in an iphone or tune a radio station to whatever made me comfortable and relaxed. No station came in clearly and when I plugged in my iPhone nothing happened. So much for being comfortable and relaxed, I thought as the red disinfectant gently air dried on my junk.

"You don't mind if a trainee came in, do you?" the Samoan bouncer asked. "No, not at all," I said as nonchalantly as possible. Hell, my penis and testicles were shaved, slathered in red and sticking out of a green surgical drape while I didn't listen to soft jazz. Why not? A young lady came in moments later, my humiliation complete.

Finally, the doctor arrived, and began manipulating my balls in his hand like he was working with a worry stone. "Ready?" he asked. With the Samoan and trainee out of the room, I agreed we were good to go. What else could I say at this point?

He injected the anesthesia which, I'm happy to say, was the worst part of the entire experience. Numbed, he got to work. He had told me he would get to my little baby makin' tubes from beneath my testicles, but decided to go in from above, directly adjacent to my dick. I didn't know he was going in from up top, so when I felt clamps draped across my pelvis I got wondering what was going on. 

Tied off, sealed up and cleaned off, it was all over—not 20 minutes later. Sternly instructed to keep ice packed on my block and tackle for the entire weekend and not to move or do anything I headed home. (Most vasectomies are scheduled on a Friday to reduce away-from-work time.) I did just as I was told. Though I experienced some discomfort I only took a couple of the two dozen or so of the prescription pain pills. Within a week I was back to normal, with only mild discomfort in the ole' fun bags. 

My adventure is complete. I survived. The mind fuck of the whole thing was worse than the surgery or post-op recovery. In a few weeks I take a sperm sample in to the lab to confirm I'm no longer producing little swimmers. And once those results come in, Lizzie can drop her birth control we can shoot blanks all over the place!