So, I popped over to Kink of the Week today, and what should the topic turn out to be?
So I decided to talk about bums.
Because, to my continual (for some reason) surprise, I am a bit of an Ass Lady.
I say “surprise” because (a) I’m deeply ambivalent about my own butt, and also (b) I’m not butt-oriented in general… and yet… Honestly? Three girlfriends in? I’m noticing a pattern. ‘Cause every one of them has (a) had a great ass, but also (b) had said great ass totally captivate me on many an occasion.
You know “callipygian”? “Having a shapely behind”? It’s that. All of my lady-loves have had these gorgeous, curvy, meaty rear-ends that I just want to get my hands on and my face into.
Not me, apparently.
I mean, gods know I have A Type, even if I don’t always date to it.
And yet: bodacious asses.
Tag Archive: kink of the week
So, I popped over to Kink of the Week today, and what should the topic turn out to be?
So it’s catch-up week at KotW, and the most recent prompt has been corsets. Consequently, I’ll be talking a bit about them in this post.
Look. I love how a corset – an underbust, a plastic-boned bodice, even tight-lacing – looks. I recently did a portrature sitting where I deisilpunked it up as an alternate-earth WASP in her leather & pvc dress uniform. (I wore my Unholy Harvest dogtags, for those keeping track). Wish I had a photo to show you, ’cause I swear I felt like Amanda Fucking Palmer in that getup. 🙂
I love the way a nipped-in waist – whether through actual hardware or just through wearing a fitted top – can accestuate my already-fairly-hourglass figure and play up my awesome shoulders and hips. I love the feel of the fitted, structured fabric. I love the way my hips and ribs feel moving against it.
I kind of loathe the sore back that comes with wearing boned articles of clothing. Sorry folks. My fetwear is more likley to be a sarong and some gladiator sandals, even if the aesthetics of giant high heels + heaps-o-boning totally turn my crank.
I am, occasionally, a practical girl.
That said, I do have a tonne of the things – mostly the plastic-boned kind that you can get on ebay for $9.99 – that I use primarily for modeling jobs (see above re: portraiture class, for example). Because they’re not understood, these days, as “underwear” (sexwear is a different story, mind you), and because our contemporary clothing tends not to be particularly structured (even a lot of business-formal-style “blouses” are actually knits these days), the boning and obvious shaping of a corset (or similar item) tends to lend an element of instant formality to a given outfit while also playing (however inacurately) with anacronistic themes. They’re a useful thing to have in a work-wardrobe when your job involves bringing fantasy to life – or at least depictions of same. Case in point:
So those are my thoughts on corsets.
So this week’s Kink of the Week Prompt is Begging. I’m kind of uncomfortable with begging, at least in the hyperbolic, incessant-until-they-get-what-they’re-asking-for sense of the word. I feel an unpleasant mix of put-upon and embarrassed, like I should probably give in and do whatever-it-is just to shut them up.
And yet… There’s something about “please”, about “let me?”, about that vulnerable voicing of want and hunger combined with the holding back, with not just taking… Now, that I love.
I fantasize about that stuff. About being the kind of top who doesn’t just listen with her skin, but with her ears, who makes sure this, or this, or this is wanted; about hearing please gasped breathless and half-involuntary by someone yearning for my hands, my mouth, all over her lit-up body; that makes me shiver all over, that makes my breath go shallow and my blood race.
But, too, there’s something about hearing it coming from someone who’s buried her face in my neck, who’s risking the terror of letting her own hunger show, hesitant and hopeful as the brush of fingertips along my lower back, breath whispering over my skin. There’s such a delicious power in that, in the inviting and the allowing, when it works, when trust is the right way to go. And I want that, too.
I want it all.
So “belts” is the topic for this half of February’s KotW challenge.
While I appreciate a good hobble belt as a way of flagging (and also hanging stuff upon one’s person), I don’t tend to reach for a belt when I want to give someone a taste of leather.
Part of that is just…. I don’t wear them.
I mean, my wife/property wears them, and I suppose I could take off her belt and smack her with it, but… Meh? I just don’t wanna.
Like I’ve said before, I’m a crops and quirts kind of gal. Single Tails are wonderful things, yes, and I’d love to take another workshop on how to use them. But, by and large, I’m not into long-range toys. I like to make things up close and personal. 😉
So that’s where I stand on belts.
So this week’s Kink of the Week topic is Blood Play.
Woohoo! 😀 😀 😀
Seriously, I saw this topic, and what popped into my head was “YAY! Jade and I actually have a kink in common!”
Not so much, apparently. But hey. Onwards!
So blood play – and knife play, and biting, and vampirism (which is a whole other topic, though I will definitely be touching on it here, possibly a lot) and scarification, and all the other stuff that goes along with blood-letting and why you might want to do it – is kind of my bag. My jam. My rich, oozing, red, red, jam.
I’ve been interested in vampires since I was about seven years old, so that’s bound up with it somewhere. I’ve read those pulpy anthologies of lesbian vampire erotica (Blood Sisters and that sort of thing) and… the formula there is so far from what vampirism means to me. It’s not a Power Exchange thing in the D/s sense of the word, for a start – although I won’t argue that my Domme wakes up sniffing the air when there’s blood to play with and in – it’s a Power Exchange in the sense of an energetic feedback loop where we are feeding into each other (like being in a really good dance club where the music is fantastic and everyone’s moving) and on each other. It’s so far from “Oh my god, she bit my clit” (although I think I’ve probably done that, or something like that, at least once) that the trope is straight-up laughable. Drinking from another can be worship and gratitude, and it’s always about trust, about welcoming. “I will make you my own”, take you in, devour you, make you part of my body. We are both letting someone get under our skin, in different ways.
That’s what biting is – a kiss that goes deeper than skin.
I remember, when I was about 20, thinking “Blood sharing is more intimate than sex, because you need a lot more trust to do it, you can’t put a condom over a vein”.
In retrospect, this was, perhaps, a little simplistic. But my feelings about the intimacy of blood-sharing haven’t actually changed. I mean, yes, you have to do your homework, be aware of how to avoid getting sick – gloves, drop-sheets, STI tests – and usually, when I’m doing blood play (the exception being my wife, because: fluid bonding) I don’t actually get to drink anything, much as I might want to follow those enticing crimson rivers with my tongue. Rather, I tend to opt for the much safer second choice, which is running my hands through my Person’s blood and feeding it to her, dripping from my fingertips.
I’ll be in my bunk.
Anyway. So that’s part of it. A big part of it.
But some of it is just straight-up predatory Monster Food.
The hiss and the tremble and way the blood beads bright on broken skin, there’s no red like it, no smell. My voice teacher used to tell me to imagine smelling something wonderful, in order to get me to breathe properly, and what I imagined was the mingling of blood and sex. Not that I ever told her this, because that’s got to be a little disconcerting coming from a 16-year-old, particularly one who doesn’t yet know she’s kinky. But that’s what I was imagining and, yes, since I hadn’t even kisses another person at that point, the smell I was thinking of was specifically menstrual blood. When that stuff’s fresh, it’s the best smell on earth. (Three minutes after the fact, though, it’s really, really not. Pro-Tip for those who want to save their own. Although once it’s completely dried out, it smells like honey. For real. Such sweetness under hte iron).
Moving along. Some of it – touching back to that energetic feedback loop – exists at the Sex Magic end of S/M. I love to carve words into my Person using a scalpel or an 18-gage needle (if you want more tearing and, thense, more pain), to carve them in mirror-script so that they can be read specifically in the mirror. It’s magic like that pen in Harry Potter – write it until it sinks in:
You Are Loved
You Are Mine
My Horse, My Servant
It’s all intimacy, when you get right down to it. Yes, beauty. Yes, emphatically, lust. Yes, Woo, on a number of levels. But it’s the sharing, the deep and gracious vulnerability that is offered, entrusted, accepted. That’s why it matters to me.
So those are my FEELINGS on blood play.
 That line is from a poem called Leatherwood Honey by Amal El Mohtar – from her book The Honey Month, which you should all buy. Go on, I’ll wait. 🙂
 P.S.: It’s our 5-year service-versary today. 😀
Okay. So still playing catch-up, but maybe, possibly, getting close to being on schedule. Right!
I’m a stingy gal more than a thuddy one, so you’d think that I’d be all about paddles. But I’m not. Maybe it’s because I’m used to paddles that are just shapes cut out of wood (like, say, a spaghetti measurer that packs a hell of a punch and leaves awesome marks, but also has a pretty useless handle when it comes to actually getting a grip on things), but I find them hard to weild and a bit ungainly. Not like a flogger (where splatter radius is kind of an issue on a number of levels), but ungainly in their own, annoying way.
Besides that, I’m typically a hands-on type so using a paddle, for the most part, is just like… “Why wouldn’t I just spank someone with my hands, which feels so much more intimate, and also gives me a lot more control over how I choose to hit someone? If my hands get tired, I’ll just switch to this awesome crop! That’ll be great!”
I’m not really a paddles kind of girl.
None the less: Onwards!
I have used paddles before. And I wouldn’t say I’m adverse to using, say, a heavy wooden spoon, or maybe a ruler, on someone since it would give a fairly satisfying thwack when it landed. But, by and large, I’m not fond of them. The skinnier and whippier the toy, the better, for me. 😉
As far as using paddles for punishment (instead of fun/pleasure) goes… Eugh. I generally try and stay away from corporeal punishment in general, just because I don’t want to there to be any confusion (my own, or my Person’s) about what’s going on when I start pulling things out of the toy bag. I don’t want to start building associations between “being angry/disapointed about something” and “acting violently towards my Person”, even within a kink context.
Which has nothing to do with paddles, and everything to do with wanting to be a Good Sadist and a decent human being, but there you go.
As far as having tried them goes… The one time the idea that you could get pleasure from pain actually made sense to me, on a visceral level, it was when I slapped my thigh with a big, wooden ruler with a metal edge down one side. It stung like fuck (duh), but there was a shadow of electric thrill on the tail end of the sting.
I remember thinking “Oh… That’s what that’s about…” and… that was a bout it, really. Not exactly a paddle experience, but y’know, hey. Something close.
So I’m trying this Kink of the Week thing, and playing catch-up for the moment, since I’ve started it rather late. Today, we’re talking about Dacryphilia (tear fetish).
Look. There’s a wide enough streak of Fairy Godmother in me that I’d be lying if I said tears and sniffles had no effect on me. But I wouldn’t call them a turn-on. If my partner/bottom is crying due to a scene, I kind of feel like I must have messed up somewhere, rather than anything close to satisfaction at a job well done.
But I’ve also played with the possibility of making someone cry, and I’ve definitely made my property/wife sob due to the kind of physical stuff I was doing. (I try to avoid emotional sadism, for the most part. It’s too easy to screw up and – unlike staunching bleeding or patching up a bruise – I really, really don’t have a clue how to fix it if I’ve sent someone spiralling into a trigger that they didn’t know was there).
Crying can be, often is, seriously cathartic. I’ve been known to coax someone to tears when they were clearly holding a lot of stuff in. But I do that with people I know really well. It’s not something to be undertaken lightly, and it’s not something I’d do in a scene, any more than I’d blur the lines between punishment and “fun-ishment”.
People cry when they’re overwhelmed. When I’m bottoming (sexually), and my partner and I are working towards fisting, I’m aware that a giant crying jag is a likely side effect of getting more than three fingers into me. But so are facial spasms and random numbness in my hips and face. Tears aren’t something I try to cause during a scene. I’m not entirely sure how I’d handle it, after the initial stop-everything-and-check-in at least, if one of my victims cried.
So I’m trying this Kink of the Week thing, and playing catch-up for the moment, since I’ve started it rather late. Today, we’re talking about The Look.
My property/wife talks about “Ms Syren’s Monster”, a look I get that’s all hunger. I have one photo of me, with a friend sitting in my lap. It’s from years ago, when I was worryingly underweight, but I looked at the camera with eyes that were all pupil, all wildness, and every time I look at that photo of me with this much-smaller-than-me person wrapped up in my arms, all I can think is “Crap… You can see what I actually am…” I look like the kind of creature who lives among the river reeds, the kind with webbed toes and inhumanly long fingers, who hides her sharp teeth behind shy smiles and huge, dark eyes. Rusalka. Huldra. Glaistig.
My wife loves that look. It means I’ve pushed through all the filters and my sadistic self is out and getting fed, taking what it wants.
I love that she loves it. It’s nice to be able to come all the way out. 🙂
So, I’m trying this Kink of the Week thing, and playing catch-up (the rate of posting will slow again, once I’m a bit more caught up, since the prompts come roughly every two weeks). Right now, we’re talking (briefly) about Dirty Talk.
“Dirty Talk”, to me, has a couple of different connotations. On the one hand, a lot of the time, “dirty talk” just seems to be “use your words” with a bit of a hook in it. I’ve been writing porn for going on ten years now. Not great porn, most of it, but porn none the less. So I’ve… mostly got the hang of saying what I want, shyness and fears of rejection notwithstanding. And that’s all it is, I think. Naming things. Nouns and verbs that aren’t clinical. That can be giggled and whispered and growled and breathed into someone else’s skin.
Other times, “dirty talk” is a means to check in with, or acknowledge(?), your lover in the moment. It’s like… I like being able to use the right words. It’s nice to be able to say “I want to lick you all over” because it means I can voice my own desires. But saying “I want to suck on your tits” to a woman who’s flat-chested at 28 or 40, that’s nice, yes, for the same reasons, but also because it lets your girlfriend know you’re seeing her properly. I fyou’re with someone new, or someone with a lot of body insecurity, that can matter a lot. Likewise, being able to confer with your partner during an S/M scene – not even necessarily a role-playing thing – without breaking the mood, that matters, too, although it definitely doesn’t always go the way you’re expecting. (I once asked a friend, who’d been clinging to me like a koala bear and into whose ribs I’d been digging my knuckles, if she was going to cry for me. And she responded quite matter-of-factly that she had no idea. You kind of need to be able to roll with it, basically).
But, while I think that – in the broad sense – the term “dirty talk” can encompass all of that… It’s not what I personally tend to associate with the phrase. Rather, and possibly unfortunately, I tend to associate the term “dirty talk” with a sort of “come on my face” kind of thing where there’s humiliation play involved. And I’m not into that. Not into shaming or belittling my partner, and definitely not into being called mean names or laughed at when I’m the one on the bottom.
Sorry kids. Just not my thing.