Please ignore – just experimenting…

Trying to add those damn buttons to the bottom of my posts…

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Switching

I’ve always had a thing for topping dominant men. There’s just something so delicious about taking someone who’s caused you so much pain and pleasure and making them squirm.

Even nicer, though, is topping other switches. Switches are some of my favorite people to play with, actually, and I’m lucky to be in a scene where not a ton of value is placed on identifying as “pure top” or “true submissive.” While I know a few people who would never think of picking up a paddle, and a few others who would laugh in my face if I asked to tie them down, most of the folks I know either truly enjoy both roles, or at least occasionally dabble in the role that isn’t usual for them.

The neatest thing about it, I think, is that switches who can fully engage in both roles already know what both roles feel like. It makes them more sensitive to the difficulties and insecurities each role can bring up, and allows them both to help the other party along if he or she is inexperienced, and to fully surrender or take control in the role they’ve chosen.

Submission is always a gift, but it feels like an extra-special gift to me when I’m given it by the one who spends most of his time domming me.

There can be few better ways to spend an afternoon then sliding gloved fingers in and out of my usual dominant, gently guiding his hands away from his cock to keep him from distracting himself, watching him shudder and sigh and build, burying myself inside his body, nearly blind with the chemical rush of control and pleasure, hand becoming cock pouring love into him and out again into me, then, instead of letting him fuck my mouth, sucking him off actively while I press on his prostate for all I’m worth, forcing him to explode in my mouth.

As I curled up on his chest, my cunt soaking from the waves of power and his pleasure, so closely linked to mine now, I told him, “That was a completely satisfying sexual experience.” I hadn’t actually physically had an orgasm. But I spend a lot of time with him worshipping his body and letting him manhandle mine. The opportunity to invade the body I worship is an opportunity for even greater sacredness.

Tomorrow he’ll be ordering me to my knees again. But now and then I can revel in the precious gift of his submission.

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The one time I did – Part 2

[Part 1 is here.]

I’ve taken the cuffs off of him and for a moment we’re equals, dropped lightly out of the scene and into a few seconds of friendly conversation, laced with compassion and care.

“I haven’t been to that place in a long time,” he tells me again. “I so needed it.”

“I’m not done with you yet,” I remind him with a smirk. “Are you ready to go on?”

The flogging wasn’t even that severe; it was something about the thuddy pressure, the rhythmic nature of it, his surrender, that made him break. His back is reddened but not welted, and I can tell that he can take a lot more. I take the four-foot singletail out of my bag and order him onto his hands and knees on the bed.

In an instant he is down again, dropped into that swimming pool I know so well, the place of buzzy-headed wordlessness. I start swinging the whip back and forth across his ass, leaving little red trails in perfect horizontal formation. He breathes, managing the pain, arching his back, rolling his hips, letting it flow up his spine. I start throwing the whip and leaving fiery vertical cuts to cross the stripes I’ve already made, throwing it harder, harder, harder, not playing at the speed of sound but getting little low-pitched thaps out of the cracker and sweet whimpers, at a higher and higher pitch, out of him.

I see him start to shiver again, the muscles tense, the breathing quicken. This is the place where I always hedge: do I keep going? I back off a little, slow down, give him more time to process each strike, but then I feel what his body wants, feel that need again from him, and I ramp back up until he breaks a second time, falling face-down on the bed.

I put the whip down and slowly approach. His back is hot, his ass scorching, under my cool hand. I succumb to an impulse I rarely have with clients: to lay my body on top of his, to hold and comfort him. Finally I turn him over, and there’s a moment when I see his cock, hard and short and thick, and think of what it would be like to suck it, to let him fuck me. It comes to mind only because he doesn’t look at me with challenge in his eyes, because his submission is so complete. From the moment we met he has been respectful, classy, considerate, and now he is opened, vulnerable, and more beautiful than I dared to notice.

The moment passes, and again we find ourselves in gentle cameraderie, sitting on the bed together and talking. I ask him if he wants to stop here, or go on with something else; we have perhaps a half hour remaining.

He had told me that strap-on play was very important to him, and I had told him that I don’t do it, but he hired me anyway. On some strange hunch I brought my equipment along, and at the beginning I laid everything out on the bed – “just in case.”

“Please,” he asks me now, not quite back in that submissive headspace but not looking me in the eyes either, “could we play with your strap-on?”

I’m still conflicted about it, knowing the boundaries I generally set for myself and feeling them pushed, but knowing, too, that I deliberately brought it and flaunted it, perhaps in the hopes that I’d get to use it with someone I found attractive. I agree to let him suck it, but don’t make any promises about fucking him.

But having my cock sucked is my downfall.

I strap on the leather harness, with my purple cock through it, and set it in place, feeling the way it connects with my body and becomes an extension of me. At these moments I never feel dominant: I feel exposed, naked and rampant. Powerful, perhaps, but flayed: unveiled in the kind of power that terrifies. With my cock on I feel like a predator in the heat of the kill, and at the same time I fear the foolishness of it, the ridiculous spectacle of a woman wearing a rubber dick. This is another of my secrets about this act, my reluctance in sharing it with strangers: what if they see that I’m like a tiger wearing a baby bonnet – or worse, like a sheep wearing a wolf suit?

But with the object of desire in place he falls into role again as easily as breathing. I put my hand back in his curls and help/force him to his knees in front of me, and he takes the purple cock – my cock – into his mouth and sucks.

Sucking my cock is a sure way to plug it even more deeply into my body: watching someone suck it, suck it earnestly and treat it like it’s real, makes it real. Some part of me extends outward, fills the space the cock occupies, ennervates it and animates it, and all at once I’m not just shoving a silicone cock I have strapped to my body with leather down your throat. I’m fucking your mouth.

I fuck his mouth a little and watch his eyes tear as he looks up at me. I feel the abandon start to rise in me, the wetness and the growling and the fear, the fear of how I’ll let go, coming and snarling and shooting my energy into this person I don’t know, scaring him maybe, giving away my life force, and I pull him back by the hair. He looks at me with that pleading in his eyes that I can’t refuse. “Please fuck me,” he whispers, “just a little. Please.”

I pull him onto the bed and order him back onto his hands and knees. “Back up,” I say, and he backs his muscular ass toward the end of the bed so I can stand while I fuck. I grab a glove and the thick lube I’ve brought and my black-gloved finger finds his hole and pushes, swirls around the opening, finds him warm and ready and yearning.

I slide into him and he makes that sound, that sound that is only made by men who are being fucked in the ass because they want it. That half-whimper, half-moan, that fucking beautiful sound of abandon and pleasure and fear and yearning and taboos busted all over the floor.

He fucks back into me and I hold his hips with one gloved hand and one bare one, guiding him onto my curved purple cock, filling his guts. I start to feel it building in me again, the unreal reality of my cock squeezed by his tight little asshole, the fucking miracle of my cock disappearing inside him, the sounds he’s making – and then he’s asking me if he can touch himself and yes, of course, play with your cock but don’t come until I tell you, and I feel dizzy and tunnel-visioned and I don’t want to come, I can’t come, not here, not with him, and why not, but I want to, but I hold back and keep control, letting him find his abandon without taking my own.

“Please may I come?” he gasps, and what can I say but yes, fucking come for me, and he does, crying out, his sounds like someone dying of sex, and I fear the tears again but there’s nothing, only silence and softness and I pull out of him, humbled, a little embarrassed, happy that I had him that way and not face-up, where he couldn’t see my face, the struggle, the loss of composure.

Immediately I take the harness off and begin to bring the scene down; somehow I can’t cuddle him now, it’s too intimate, but I speak gently and let him recover in his own time. He thanks me and I thank him again, and we slowly recover our roles – or recover from them.

It’s awkward, saying goodbye. I’d like to see him again and I know that that can’t happen except at his instigation. Even if we do, it won’t be me he sees. Not the me who would like to fuck him again, without money exchanging hands, without the need to hold back, to wear a corset while I do it, to play, as I sometimes have to, at loving less.

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Monday Advice – The Trickster Edition

Dear Delilah,

So say you’re going along just fine in your life and you’re getting ready to pack up your house and move to a new one, when you discover a bedbug crawling on your husband’s sock. Right there on his sock, while he’s wearing it, bold as brass! You thought your bedbug infestation was over months and months ago! You guess that those aren’t mosquito bites after all! And now you have to do the whole deep-cleaning fiasco all over again, right before you move, and take extra special care not to bring the little fuckers to your new place!

What then?
Yours,
Stomp Every Little Fucker

Well, SELF, my guess is if this happened to you, that you might consider taking a little August hiatus from the advice column and everything else until you were well and truly moved. There’s an awful lot of packing to do still, not to mention that you need to wash every piece of fabric in the house in hot water and run it through the dryer for two hours. A bunch of shit needs to be thrown away, and you need to buy more of those huge contractor garbage bags and gigantic mutant Ziplocs. You might consider setting your current apartment on fire. I hear that kills bedbugs good.

Yes, if I were in that position, I might tell my readers to expect a little less from me over the next little while. On the other hand, I might come back and post some hot little tale now and then in the next few weeks just because if I don’t I’ll go crazy.

I’ll try and keep the column going, folks. But in case I can’t right now, see you in September.

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The one time I did – Part 1

He was sitting at the chic hotel bar when I walked in: compact, muscular, with a tanned face that bespoke Greek heritage, perhaps, with bright green eyes. More attractive, needless to say, than my clients generally were. Younger, too. The problem with this is that such men tend to be obnoxious, to ask more of me than I’m willing to give, to push my boundaries. Like they’re doing me a favor.

Not this one. He’s kind, offers to buy me a drink, which I decline. He’s well-read, and a Burner. He has a low key but confident way about him that I like. I could tell this would be one of those rare instances where the client is someone I would have happily played with for free, but would never have the guts to approach at a party.

He’s booked me for three hours, and I can think of worse things to do with that time than explore the kinks of this rather yummy specimen. He tells me that he usually tops, but from time to time, he feels the need to let go, to let someone else be in control. I usually worry about this, again with the concern that he’ll be bratty or try to make me switch. But something tells me that this is a different sort of person.

The hotel is downtown, one of the swanker places in the Manhattan style – sleek black and silver, not ornate old wood. The room is spacious and inviting, and now that we’ve had our talk we start right in.

When he undresses I see that he takes care of himself, and also that he is one of those men who is never quite thin: shortish, barrel-chested, thick all over but not hairy. The hair on his head is short and curly and lovely to grab and pull.

There is something beautiful about a usually-dominant man submitting. The sincerity and thoroughness of the surrender, in this case, almost steals my breath. Many men have dropped to their knees in front of me and kissed and licked my boots. It’s all part of the script. Dig me, such subs seem to say, I know what it’s all about, how it’s done. This man knows both sides of the coin, and the way he gives over, drops his eyes, trembles in fear and anticipation, is immensely moving. When I grab his hair he actually whimpers, and is immediately in the headspace I want him in.

I love boot worship when it’s done well; when it’s not, it’s a total bore. It’s hard to say what it is that makes it well-done: I only know that when it is, it makes me wet. It’s something about the way the sub becomes absorbed in the act, doesn’t always have, literally or figuratively, one eye on me to see how I’m reacting. The boots in that moment are me, and the truly gifted bootlicker isn’t doing it only for my pleasure. His head is swimming with desire, his vision is blurred with only the blackness of leather or vinyl in its scope, his nose and tongue are full of the scent, his mouth working slowly and with focus. Most importantly, he doesn’t have that puppy-dog approval-whore thing going on: none of that aren’t I a great submissive? crap. I’m not interested in how well you play your role. I’m interested in you, and how your desires mesh with mine.

This man is with me, in the way that clients rarely are. We have seen each other, in this conversation that we shared. There is spark, here. His need for submission is great, and yet the expression of that need is specific. He is both well-trained – the way he moves is graceful yet without pretense – and totally responsive.

I’m loving this, but it’s time to move on. I’ve found a way to jury-rig dog leashes over the bathroom door and I string him up with cuffs, standing, and begin to flog his broad brown back.

I love to flog, but it’s the rare client that loves it like I do. It becomes clear, quickly, that he is one of these gems, and I go at him with a zen-like yet ever intensifying rhythm. I don’t know how long I stand there, swinging my right arm in figure-eights, harder and harder, watching his back redden and his muscles tighten and loosen, listening to him gasp and whimper and moan. Fuck. Now and then I ease off, rub his back with a cool hand, press my body into his back, my thigh against his ass, between his legs. I think, at one point, that I’ve gone too far, and I check in with him.

“Please,” he whispers as I hold my head next to his, run my nails down over his ass. “Please, more.” He doesn’t, can’t, look at me, but his body tells the whole story and it’s true. I back up and start swinging again, a few strokes to work back up to the level I’d stopped at, then harder and harder. He starts to shake, muscles spasming, hands clenching at the cuffs, and I can feel the energy flowing between us, the way his want draws the blows from me, the way I feel his need, the need I’ve so often felt myself, for just one more, one more, one more…

And then he breaks, and he’s sobbing, half-hanging from the dog-leashes and barely holding himself up. I stop swinging and move to him again, my arm wrapping up under his arm, around his chest, pressing his heart. My body against his back, feeling the waves of his tears passing through me. There is no shame here. Only release. Only love, in that strange sense that it can happen in one encounter, the true exchange between two people in a moment.

When he calms down, he tells me, “That hasn’t happened in a long time. Thank you.”

“Thank you,” I tell him, and we take a rest. But there is still so much time to go…

[Part 2.]

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Monday Advice – Know Thyself

Dear Delilah,

I had an ex girlfriend in a quad relationship that we parted ways with because while she identified as submissive, you could not get her to reveal any of her desires. She didn’t know what they were. Tied down, being rubbed with fur and pricked with a Wartenberg wheel, flushed with pleasure, and you’d still get no answer to the question, and very little response other than involuntary physical indicators.

I didn’t understand the behavior, and there’s so many bad places you can take a sub’s head when you don’t know what’s going on. And that behavior carried over into other parts of the relationship, too. We wound up splitting up over her self-avoidance and our unwillingness to screw up.

How do you get around this kind of lack of self-knowledge for sex/play purposes? What do you do to get important information from someone who avoids themselves?

I don’t want to be glib, but in this situation I have to say: you did the right thing in breaking up with her.

It seems like what you’re talking about is different from the simple (and very common) problem of a new submissive not knowing what they like yet.
Rather, it seems like this was someone who was completely out of touch with her own body’s responses, and was unable to communicate the most basic of feelings. The old adage that you can’t love someone else until you love yourself – well, I think it has exceptions. But it’s very difficult to know someone else until you know yourself.

Now naturally, none of us knows ourselves completely – maybe not ever. But the basic information of What I Like or What I’m Into or just What Feels Good is essential for any sexual relationship to be at all successful. If someone doesn’t have access to that information about herself, then it’s really tough to engage in any type of sexuality with her.

What do you do to get information from a person who avoids themselves? Well, you did manage to gather some data from her physiological responses – flushing and other involuntary indicators – but those aren’t any good if the person experiencing them is completely unplugged from the experience – and may even decide later that what you did was not okay.

It’s possible that this person has some neurological issues around sensory integration, and I certainly don’t want to deny such people the opportunity for sexual pleasure with a partner. But if this is the case, she needed to get help around it. Even if it’s not the case, and she experienced continual avoidance around all these aspects of her life as you say she did – psychological and/or physiological help should have been sought.

If you had decided to stay with her and help her on the road to self-discovery, I would have recommended something like this in addition to whatever therapy was appropriate: don’t do BDSM-type play until she gets in better touch with herself. Even gentle, loving sexuality of the vanilla variety seems like it could be risky with someone like this, but entering into roleplay, where self-expression is ritualized and restricted, would be much more of a minefield.

The thing to do is work up to it. Talk a lot. Ask how it feels when you’re touching a particular place. If you see her getting all up in her head, tell her to breathe into the place you’re touching, to bring her attention and awareness to it. Tell her she doesn’t have to use words if it’s too difficult. If you can elicit genuine sexual response that reaches her face (smiles, moans, joyful eye contact, etc.), then that’s progress.

On the other hand, if someone does have sensory integration issues, it’s possible that nothing will get through but rough touch. I know people who experience anything lighter than what most would consider painful as tickling, and BDSM has allowed them to experience their sexuality more fully. So going for harder contact might be the answer, especially if the person already identifies as submissive.

But in this case it sounds like she was more out of touch with what she was experiencing – not just in bed but in general – than like she was having trouble integrating feeling. In which case I again recommend therapy, and patience.

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