Foundation

Although I don’t remember the first time someone put my toes in their mouth (it might have been the boss I had a brief affair with when I was nineteen…?), I do know that I’m forever grateful – it’s something I’ve wanted from every partner since.  There are people who are really freaked out by feet because of their smell or their aesthetic, but I find them to be absolutely beautiful.  Some people who are into feet like their own touched or licked; others like to fondle or worship other people’s feet.  As for me – it’s all the feet all the time.

I wouldn’t consider myself to have a foot fetish per se since I don’t need to touch, see, or think about feet to get off; I just love looking at and touching feet and having mine caressed, licked, and beaten.  I once even had the soles of my feet pierced just for the craic!  I couldn’t dance for a few days afterward, but it was an interesting sensation.  It’s always such a delight telling a new play partner that I like having the bottoms of my feet lightly caned and flogged.  If I’m really into someone and generally like their smell, I love smelling their feet, too, and have never been grossed out by sock lint between toes or football-induced blood blisters*.  I stare a bit too long at high arches and relish the feeling of big, strong hands wrapped around my feet.

There was a time long ago when I was hosting someone from out of state for a dance exchange; he was giving me a massage and started rubbing my feet.  “Oh, no you don’t,” I said – “If you touch my feet, you’re going to have to fuck me.”  I must have taken him by surprise, because he gently let my foot down and told me that he guessed he would have to concentrate on my back.  I was thrilled when I went to visit him months later and, walking upstairs from a wine bar, he pinned me against the wall and whispered into my ear, “I think I’m ready to massage your feet now.”  See?  Intoxicating.

This is why, on the second evening I ever spent with The Engineer, I laughed when he drunkenly suggested sticking a toe in me while we were taking a bath together.  “Go for it!” I said.  “It’s just a toe.”  He did, and it was quite a bonding experience.  Also why I will laugh for ages and ages every time I hear Rachel Lark’s song “Fuck My Toe” (that whole album is fabulous; I highly recommend giving it a listen).  Saying yes to something so small let him know that if he could ask for silly sexy things, then it might be okay to ask for other secret desires to be met down the road.  Kind of like a podiatric litmus test.

All of this is to say that feet are my jam.  My toe jam, as it were.  They are our very foundation.  They ground us, they move us, they carry us up mountains and down canyons and into forests and rivers, and they give us the ability to dance and play and run free.  They connect us to the earth and to each other.  What’s not to worship?

 

 

 

 

*I’m looking at you, honey.

Advertisements

Brought To My Senses

I close my eyes and think of scratching.  I see the pale skin and broad shoulders of my first love, the one who faced his back to me whenever we fell asleep together (his parents let me sleep in his bed with him when we were high school students, which I still find shockingly progressive) and asked me in a plaintive voice to scratch his back, followed by a relieved and happy sigh.

I feel my nails – always bare and cut short, but no less sharp – dig into the haunches of a dozen lovers, carried away with scraped-out longing for my legs to spread wider so they can be deeper inside of me.

I smell pine needles as bark scratches against my hip bones and hands while The Texan fucks me hard against a tree just off a hiking trail.  We can see a hiker walking by 150 meters away; we don’t stop.

I taste a lover’s cunt in my mouth as she begs me to scratch her, to bite her, to just fucking mark her in any way I can and god make it hard.  Make it hurt good.

I hear the sharp intake of my sub’s breath as he feels the tips of my steel claws, not knowing what they are or what I’m going to do with them.  I scratch them lightly up the inside of his thigh and punctuate his scrotum, walking up his balls with the tips.  I press them harder into him until he cries out – and then I press a bit harder.  I tell him to turn around and drag them slowly down his back, his ass, and hope that the marks vanish before he goes home.  Claws leave beautiful, precise marks – and you don’t need to press very hard to leave evidence.

I love having any kind of marks on my body, and scratch marks are no exception; when someone accidentally scratches me during sex and apologizes, I press their nails harder into my body and whisper, “I’m your canvas.  Paint me red.”

 

Grown

My freshman year in high school, my closest friend (on whom I had an immense crush) and I walked through the halls, clicking away on the tiles with our brand-new, matching, shiny white gogo boots.  We wore miniskirts and lip gloss; we linked arms and sashayed into rooms like we owned the joint.  It wasn’t just that the heels on the boots made our legs more shapely; it was the way we had to bend down to zip and unzip them*, the way the line of the boot draws the eye upward, the way poise is affected by confidence is affected by poise.  A feedback loop.  I felt untouchable – an intoxicating emotion for a fifteen year-old who criticizes and doubts everything about herself.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

My father was in the military for thirty years, so I’ve always associated boots with power.  When he would head off for weekend or summer trainings, he shined his boots beforehand ‘til they glowed like fresh ink on a typewriter page.  He laced them lightning quick, ready to go in an instant in case of emergency.  When I smell shoe polish, I think of his nimble fingers pulling the strings just so and whipping them around hooks before tying bunny ears.  There are pictures of me as a toddler stomping around the house in his big black boots – laces undone, dragging on the floor.  I was in Nepal on a hike when I realized that I lace and unlace my boots just like he used to, and it made me cry in the middle of the mountains.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I’ve worn boots as both a domme and sub in session; I’m a bottom by nature, and it can be difficult for me to inhabit a dominant headspace.  Attire makes a huge difference!  I know that a true dominant can do all their domly domming no matter what they’re wearing, but… I’m just not a top.  Wearing boots is the number one thing – at least from a physical standpoint – that helps me get into a dominant role.  Be it cowboy boots used to step on someone’s dick (love that guy), heavy, thigh-high black vinyl boots being worshipped by a man on his hands and knees, or – any boots, really – used to boost my height and assertiveness, boots make me feel in command.  Self-possessed.  A force to be reckoned with*.  I feel like my fifteen year-old self: swaying my hips, begging to be looked at, and acting grown up – not even really knowing what that means.

*…or a snow bunny.

*

 

Go Inside

Blindfolds allow me to be immersed in my body.  When I can see someone looking at me – especially a new partner – I feel more pressure to perform pleasure than to experience it.  Don’t get me wrong: There are times I love looking into a partner’s eyes.  When I’m riding The Engineer and have my whole body wrapped around him, then pull back, look him in the eye, and kiss him long and deep, it feels like magic.

But.

There’s something about having a scarf, bandana, or slip of satin suddenly thrown over my eyes that shifts my perspective from pleasure collaborator to receiver of pleasure.  It allows me to fully accept pleasure in a way that I have a more difficult time doing if I can see my partner, especially during oral sex – even better if I’m immobilized.  If the blindfold is used as part of a BDSM scene, it’s a basic show of trust in my top and a testament to whether or not that trust is well-placed (it’s not always; I once had a play partner use a violet wand on me when I was blindfolded without asking first!).  It also lends itself to a much higher level of anticipatory arousal for me if I can’t see what’s going to happen next.

I have a few notable memories involving blindfolds: The first is when my manfriend (I call him this because he was 13 years older than me) grabbed a black silk scarf from his lamp one night, slid it across my breasts, and tied it around my eyes before grabbing my legs and wrapping them around his muscular hips.  The second is the first time I had PIV sex with The Texan (I’ll write about this in detail one day – it was really hot); as I lowered the blindfold over his eyes, I whispered, “I promise I won’t hurt you.”  I wrote about the third memory here.

The Engineer loves blindfolding me as part of our kinky play, and I just bought a brand-new delightfully fuzzy blindfold for us to use.  He’s a bit claustrophobic and has told me before that he doesn’t enjoy being bound or deprived of any senses, but when I told him I was writing this, he said, “I would let you blindfold me.  I trust you.”  I am VERY excited to close off one of his senses and kiss and touch him everywhere.  I think he just might like it more than he thinks he will.

Work in Progress

I love butt stuff.  Plugs, fingers, vibrating plugs, rimming, beads, plugs of various shapes and sizes, pegging, and – have I mentioned plugs?  I love them.  That said – anal sex isn’t really my thing.

Having a partner slide a finger into my ass while licking my puss?  Definitely my thing, and my clitoral orgasms are so much more intense when combined with anal stimulation.  I often incorporate beads and plugs when I wank, especially to tip me over the edge.  Riding a partner’s dick with a vibrating butt plug in so he can feel the vibrations through my vaginal wall?  Absofuckinglutely.  I often fantasize about double penetration – sitting on a dick reverse cowgirl style and lying back on that gent while having another fuck me missionary style while other people watch.  Giving languid analingus at the end of a long body massage makes me drip, and putting on a strap-on, making it goopy and slick with lube, and sliding it into a wriggling ass that can’t wait to be penetrated, only to hear a deep groan of satisfaction, makes my heart pound.  PIA, though?  That I could take or leave.

Then again – maybe I just haven’t given it a fair shot.  The first time I tried anal was in uni; we lubed up, used fingers first as a warm up, and… it was good.  Not great, but good.  The second time we tried I really got into it.  Then one night my boyfriend was pounding me hard from behind and his dick accidentally slipped into my ass (yes, this really does happen); it hurt so bad that I didn’t want to try anal with him again.  I tried with another partner a year later, and then didn’t do it again until a decade later when I started dating The Texan, and then only once.  I think that part of it is that I’ve gone on dates and had one-night stands with a lot of men who want to fuck me in the ass, but would never in a million years allow themselves to be pegged – and that just doesn’t sit right with me.  If someone expects me to take their cock in my rectum but won’t even try a finger in theirs to see what it feels like, they’re probably out the door.

Anal sex is not a casual sex activity for me.  It’s something I’ve only ever wanted to do in relationships in which I feel I can really trust my partner to pull back, slow down, or stop if I feel uncomfortable – so maybe now is a good time to give it another try.  A noble goal for 2018.  The Engineer and I are keen (but he also has quite a sizable cock, which makes me a bit nervous), and it’s something we talk about doing often; I’ll make working up to it a goal for our next visit.  “Let’s go home so you can put it in my butt” would probably make a welcome airport greeting, don’t you think?

The Ravishment of Winter

When the sun extends its long arms toward verdant plants and trees, and the earth breathes with birth and growth, I’m eager to jump out of bed in the morning, naked as the day I was born, and play for hours out in the open.

But days like today – when it’s far below freezing – I want to burrow.  Weather has a definite impact on the type of sex I’m in the mood for, and winter is meant for wrapping my legs tight around and pressing my body flat against a partner.  For cuddling for lengthy periods, desperate to warm ourselves by clinging to each other; for making love by candlelight; for diving under the duvet in the mornings and breathing in the stale heat of each other’s carbon dioxide until we literally need to come up for air.  For drinking steaming cups of tea and coffee in bed and running baths so hot that we sink in centimeter by centimeter to get used to it and come out flushed and wrinkled.

I’m at my least kinky in winter, unless there’s central heating – but winter is when I feel most connected, communal, and rooted.  I get this overwhelming feeling when sitting on a hearth and staring into a fire – my past and future meet and I can see all of the possibilities of the new year lying ahead, and I feel the interconnectedness of all things for a fleeting moment.

For me, spring and fall are for starting over and letting go; summer is for spontaneity and relishing new experiences.  Winter is for reflection, for deep love and compassion, and for holding tight to the people we hold most dear.

I run cold, so winter is also for asking nicely to be warmed up by any means necessary.  When we come home to each other, it gives me the opportunity to say, “I’m freezing; can you make me sweat?”

Handy Man

There’s a big disparity in the way we talk about pleasing people with penises versus pleasing people with vaginas / vulvas; one only need to Google “mystery of female orgasm” to see it (oh my god ALL THOSE ARTICLES).  Touching a vulva is seen as something that needs specific technique / dexterity / finesse – there are classes and books dedicated to it.  Handling a peen, on the other hand, is discussed flippantly if at all – due in part to the social narrative that men see hand jobs as a waste of time because they also have hands (as do I… but that doesn’t stop me from wanting other people to touch me with theirs!).

Because I talk about sex all the time to most of the people I come into contact with, I’ve met many a man who preferred hand jobs to blow jobs because the muscles in hands are so strong, because they don’t like the scraping of teeth, because the angle of manual sex is better for them, or for various other reasons.  I prefer giving hand jobs to giving blow jobs because I have chronic jaw pain; even when I do engage in oral sex, there’s a lot of manual stimulation thrown in.

And just as every woman likes to be touched in a way that’s unique to her, every man does, too.  When I’m with a new partner, I always ask: How do you like to be touched?  When you masturbate, what do you do?  Can you show me?  I like to put my hands over theirs so that I can practice the kinds of movements and rhythms that make them feel good.  I like to experiment, too; gently, at first, in case there’s something my partner doesn’t like.  Hand jobs are my favorite way to learn a new penis.  I prefer to think of them as a type of massage and really like integrating them into massaging other parts of my partners’ bodies.  I use both hands, I use oil, I ask if I can touch areas they may or may not be comfortable with: the base of the penis that lies behind the scrotum, their testicles, their anuses.

Hand jobs can be an amazing way to connect with a partner; imagine coming home from a long day at work to a dimly-lit bedroom with relaxing music on and told to get undressed so your partner can give you a massage… and then having that massage focus on your dick.  Hand jobs can also be hot as fuck when they’re illicit – say, under a blanket on a long-distance train, while driving, in the coat room at a party, or in a crowded bar (story forthcoming).

Hand jobs aren’t some lost relic of adolescence; they’re a big part of my sex life – especially in the context of a long-term relationship, they help me to establish connection and feel out (pardon the pun) the ways in which my partners prefer to be pleased.

“Handy Man,” by the way, is an amazing blues song: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BmFtwwCOmmo

Gateway

Remember back in the eighties when pot was described by Nancy Reagan and the D.A.R.E. program as a “gateway drug” – the idea being that once you smoke mary jane, there’s no turning back, and you will IMMEDIATELY AND IRREVOCABLY crave harder drugs?  I feel like spanking is the “gateway kink” of BDSM in that most people have tried it… and then have all gone on to have completely different / variant experiences with kink (‘cause the myth of a gateway drug is fucking ridiculous).  Some folks try spanking, find that they’re not into it, and go back to vanilla(ish) sex; some folks like it and stick with it, but don’t get into other stuff; and some of us now own a host of impact toys, lengths of rope, and butt plugs.

Hand spanking was my introduction to kink; my high school boyfriend and I role played and experimented as much as possible, using the online purity test as a guideline for New Things to Try.  I loved the stingy feeling of light pain that accompanied the heights of pleasure my sensitive body was experiencing – I wondered at how it intensified my joy.  I feel so lucky that my first exposure to spanking was in a loving relationship in which I completely trusted my partner; it allowed me to explore other aspects of BDSM which I now fully enjoy and incorporate into my sexual life (and sometimes non-sexual play).

I very much enjoy pain, but I’m not a masochist; I’m not submissive, per se, but when the right person gives me orders, it makes me quiver.  Having partners who not only ask if I want to be spanked, but how, is such a huge turn-on.  Here’s what I say:

I want you to bend me over your knee and pull my knickers down so that they’re just underneath my bottom.  With one hand around my waist holding me tight, I want you to start lightly and rhythmically slapping my ass – both cheeks – like you would a drum.  Keep a slightly curved hand so you don’t hurt yourself!*  Slowly build up speed and intensity, then give me one good, hard smack.  Before I can finish letting out that sigh of pleasure, hit the other cheek hard – it will take me by surprise.  Lightly graze both cheeks with your fingertips in whatever pattern you fancy.  Start again – only this time with a bit more intensity.  Do it again.  And again.  When my ass is a nice, bright red, I want you to slide a dildo into me – maybe a few times, right over my G-spot.  Maybe more than a few.  Maybe slide your fingers around the base of that dildo and circle them around my clit, pulsing the dildo with your other hand.  Just when I think the spanking is over and I get to come, take your hands off – leave the dildo in – and tell me to count to ten.  For each number, give me a good, hard, smack – each harder than the last.  Caress my bottom with a light touch… then when I think it’s all over, give me one last extra-hard bonus smack as you start pulsing the dildo again.  Tell me to touch myself while still over your knee… and that if I come for you, I might be lucky enough to get your dick (or fingers, or strap-on) inside of me instead of that dildo.

I’m waiting…

Maybe spanking was a gateway kink for me… a gate I feel grateful to have walked through.

 

*For real – I once got a hematoma from spanking someone too hard with a straight hand!

All Over

The first time I ever experienced squirting, I wasn’t the one doing it; I was in a sex club in Seoul, fingering a dreamily beautiful young woman who suddenly gushed all over my hand.  I stopped what I was doing out of pure surprise only to have the people around me prompt me to keep going.  By the time she was done, the whole floor around her and my dress were covered in her ejaculate.  Although I’d read and heard a LOT of accounts of squirting, I didn’t expect it to be that much fluid!  It was incredible – even though it’s totally a normal thing that a load of women do on the regular, I felt like I’d just witnessed a rare and colorful bird flying by.

I chalk this up to all the “How to Make Any Woman Squirt” articles that have popped up across magazines, websites, and YouTube videos in the past few years.  Although squirting has been a documented phenomenon for centuries, the way it’s been covered in mass media in the past five years – as something you “get” women to do if you’re a rock star lover – has made squirting feel like winning an impossible video game rather than just experiencing a cool thing that some women’s bodies do.

Sprinkler, Water, Hose Connection, Rush

Perhaps it’s just me, but it also seems that because of this, the pressure is on to learn how to squirt in order to please your partners – much like there’s pressure on young women to engage in anal sex and deep throating even if they’re not into it.  That being said, I’ve also read a lot of personal accounts of women squirting and their partners not being very sensitive about it (read: having an irrational freak out), which prompted them to feel bad about their bodies for ridiculous lengths of time… so maybe, like much of women’s sexuality, it’s a damned-if-you-do and damned-if-you-don’t thing.

As for me – I thought I’d never squirt because it’s just something that my body had never done.  I’m a super juicy girl; it takes very little arousal for me to become wet (like, soaking through my panties onto my pants wet), but I’d never full-on squirted… and then it happened in Malawi.  The Engineer was going down on me and pressing his fingers deep into my G-spot; when I came, it was all over his face and the sheets.  I laughed when he looked up, his smiling face dripping with my juices.  Luckily he laughed too, and when he came up to smear my own wetness on my face, I wrapped my arms around him and kissed him fully before we showered and went out to the beach to let the sheets dry.  It hasn’t happened since, so maybe it’s a one-time thing for me.  At any rate, my personal feelings on squirting are this: It’s hot when it happens, but no woman should ever feel pressured to do it if she’s not into it or shamed if she does.  As Emily Nagoski says over and over and over in Come As You Are, we’re all normal, and squirting (or not) is a part of that.

 

Photo taken from Pixabay; credit: ariesa66.

 

Signal

Coming back from the bathroom, I tuck a piece of red fabric into the breast pocket of his brand-new suit; it matches his tie perfectly.  It looks like a handkerchief with a small, neat triangle perfectly pointed up toward his face.  He looks down, then quizzically at me as if to say, “From whence did this matching handkerchief come?” And then it dawns on him.  “Are these your knickers?!” he asks.  I smile and slide into a seat next to him, caressing his leg, and whisper into his ear that it’s time to go home.  He raises his hand for the check, and we can’t get out of the restaurant fast enough.

 

I walk up to him in a crowded bar on New Year’s Eve, kiss him on the cheek, and press something into his hand.  “You have pockets, right?” I purr into his ear.  He nods in affirmation.  “Can you hold onto these for me?” I ask, walking away.  I turn my face over my shoulder and look back as he realizes what’s in his hand and, startled, blushes and shoves my panties into his pocket.

 

He slides my panties down and takes them gingerly off my legs, over my heels, in a public park at dusk; when he starts to lick me, I come almost immediately – something that hadn’t happened in over a decade.  He won’t give me my knickers back after I come, instead making me walk to and sit through dinner naked under my white sundress – my cunt swollen and wet most of the night, ready for when we get back to mine.

 

I’m prepping dinner at my kitchen counter; he comes up behind me and wraps his arms around me. I lean back into his lips on my neck and press my ass back against him.  He slides his hands up my skirt to discover that I’m pantiless and takes that as an invitation to turn me around, push my skirt all the way up, pick me up, and fuck me on my kitchen counter (as I’d hoped he would) so we can work up an appetite.

 

For me, going commando is always a step toward some kind of sex – or at least a bomb of a hint that I’m interested in fucking.  I don’t particularly like being nude under my clothes; my thighs start to chafe a bit when I walk, and I find panties soooo comfortable.  But I love when my partners know I am – turning them on turns me on.  Whether it’s a tease at the beginning of the night or a signal at the end of a date that I’m ready to go, dropping my knickers gets both (all?) of us revved up and feisty and wanting more.