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!


New Year’s Eve

After dessert – a decadent raspberry custard topped with chocolate ganache and served with port – Cal handed over a small, meticulously-wrapped box, which he seemed to pull out of thin air.  Maybe it was the intoxicating effects of the port, the strength of which still lingered on hir tongue.  Les accepted it with both hands, wondering where Cal had found the paper containing real leaves and the ribbon which felt like velvet.  Sie looked at it carefully, turning it over in hir small hands, marveling at the care that had gone into it.  Cal’s eyes twinkled.  “Open it,” he eagerly instructed.

Sie peeled the tape off, careful not to rip the paper, and took off the lid, lifting layers of multi-colored tissue paper away from the interior to reveal a handful of small, plain, white envelopes containing what felt like cards.  Each one of the twelve had a single word printed on the cover: the first said January.  “What are these?” sie asked, delighted at the attention to detail, the smooth surface and crisp corners of the envelopes.

“Each month, you get one card with an instruction on it.  You have one month to carry out the order; if you succeed, you receive a reward.  If not, a punishment.  That simple.”  Les’s eyes widened and the corners of hir mouth drew up slowly as sie started to think about all the possibilities.  Knowing Cal, there would be nothing simple about this – it would be challenging, but exhilarating.

“Put them away for now,” he said, standing up and walking around to help Les with hir coat.  Hir face formed a momentary frown, at which he laughed.  “My darling,” he said, “January first is but an hour away, and the clock is ticking.  I believe we have an engagement to be at.  You owe me a dance and a midnight kiss.”  Sie smiled and slipped hir arm into the sleeves before putting one through Cal’s arm.  They strolled out into the cold air, still glowing from each other’s company, and held tight to each other as they walked to a friend’s party.

They danced to song after song, alternating the lead to songs that would always remind hir of New York – Gershwin, Porter, Berlin.  At midnight, showered in vibrant confetti, they kissed each other, relishing the pressure and taste of each other’s lips.  Sie trailed hir lips to his ear, and whispered, “I can’t wait.  Can I open the first one now?”  “You’re so impatient!” he chided playfully.  “But yes, of course you can.”

Sie ran over to their coats in staccato steps, digging the box out of hir deep coat pocket, and gingerly took out the first envelope.  Sie slid a finger underneath the flap and pulled out a small white card containing the following sentences:

Put the Njoy plug in first thing when you wake up in the morning.  Keep it there all day and come to my office five minutes before I get off work.  I will leave my office each day at 4:53 exactly.  When I arrive back to my office at 4:55 one day in January, you will be there, hands on my desk, wearing nothing from the waist down except that plug, waiting for me.

Les’s heart stopped at the idea of being semi-nude in Cal’s office.  Sie knew his coworkers; they often had happy hour cocktails together.  What if someone else came in?  What if the timing was off?  What if…?  Cal looked closely at her expression, wondering momentarily if he’d made a mistake – but then he saw the fear in hir eyes replaced with lust, and an unmistakable blush spread across hir face.  What if he spanks me? Sie thought.  What if he replaces that plug with his fingers?  Sie quickly thought about the heft of the metal plug and how it would feel inside of hir for an entire day.  What if he demands I get under the desk and lick his cock from base to tip, over and over, until he’s shivering?  Sie closed her eyes dreamily and thought about the potential.  Cal leaned in and brushed his lips against hirs.  “This is just the beginning,” he said, almost inaudible against the chorus of Auld Lang Syne.  “I started with an easy one.”  He slid his hand around hir waist and up hir back in a reassuring way; they spent the next few minutes in silence, both contemplating their adventures ahead and feeling no need to make resolutions.

Wicked Wednesday... a place to be wickedly sexy or sexily wicked

Happy Endings (NSFR)


We’re the first ones to arrive at the club; it’s wide open, with tons of couches and tables scattered across a huge, darkly lit room.  There’s a costume closet with a bunch of dresses and shirts and a few toys in it – one small flogger, a long leather paddle, a dildo.  We settle into a “room” adjoining the main area; I’m using quotation marks here because instead of walls, there are just metal bars separating these spaces.  Nowhere to hide.  I was putting off coming here for months because I felt a little shy, but now that I’m here, it feels comfortable.  A little dungeon-y.

Shortly after we open our bottle of Jack and pour ourselves small cocktails (swinger’s clubs in Korea require the purchase of bottle service for entry), we look around more.  I see a large swinging hook hanging from the ceiling; I grab the rope I brought with me and tie myself up to it, asking my playmates to grab that paddle and hit me with it; they gladly oblige.  Soon another couple comes up and asks if they can spank me, too; yes, I say, delighted!  Actually, one of them started fondling me without asking first – a common occurrence at this place.  I had to tell two people (in a language I’m not fluent in) that night to ask before touching.

We’re the first ones to have sex that night; I’m riding him and she’s sitting on his face and she and I are making out, and suddenly I look over to see that everyone in the room is intently staring at us.  It doesn’t bother me because I’m in the sex haze where nothing else matters but my orgasms.  Enjoy, I think, just don’t interrupt me while I’m coming.


A beautiful young woman comes over to play at some point while I’m being fucked from behind with a strap-on by the woman I came with (her first time using one!); the owner had whispered to us when we first saw her that she was a lesbian and wanted to play with women.  Whispered it because same-sex play is relatively uncommon in Korean clubs.

She looks like a real doll.  Like a straight man’s fantasy.  Perfect skin, fake breasts on a tiny frame, false eyelashes, long hair.  She’d come with a much older man but wasn’t really playing with him; he followed her everywhere she went, but I didn’t see him interacting with another person until the end of the night, when most people were drunk.

I was already on my hands and knees; she asked my friend if she could play, which got relayed to me; I answered with a resounding yes.  She kneeled behind me and started licking me.  At some point she started rimming me; afraid she would start licking my vulva again afterward, I stopped her (I’d already had to explain to the friend I came with that you can’t do that; she had no idea!) and asked her to lie on her back.  I started sliding my hand up and down her labia, smiling at her, before sliding a finger inside and asking her which spot she preferred I concentrate on.  I eventually worked up to three fingers, pushing into her G-spot with a steady rhythm; I suddenly felt a rush of liquid gushing into my hand.  I looked more closely and saw that the tissues around her urethra were so engorged that it looked like the head of a penis!  I stopped momentarily, a bit shocked, and everyone around me shouted, “No, keep going!”  Soon there was a flood pouring out of her and onto the floor around her, jets of ejaculate flying onto my dress. It. Was. Amazing.  It was my first time seeing a woman ejaculate, and it truly felt like a miracle!  I high fived her as my friends went to grab a sheet to mop everything up.  “Kiss me,” she said in a small voice, and not being one to deny someone so lovely, I leaned in and brushed my lips on hers.  They felt like petals.


I start fucking this guy, straddling him, and I keep trying to take his shirt off; he keeps pushing it down.  When I take my dress off to reveal a completely nude Jo, I hear an audible gasp from several people in the room.  I look around, and everyone – even mid-orgy – is wearing a shirt of some kind.  Mostly button-down men’s shirts.  Doesn’t quite seem the place to be modest, I think, but I come from a completely different culture.  What do I know?


Because one of the friends I came with is a marine and there’s a military curfew, we have to stay out ‘til 5:00 AM.  Around 3:30, I feel totally exhausted and just want to go – until a Danish woman and French man come over and sit with us.  They’re coworkers.  Not sure how the lifestyle came up in work conversation!  I tie her up and we take turns spanking her; I take her down and she hops onto her coworker.  It’s so hot it makes my jaw drop – he’s holding her up, his back against a wall, bouncing her on his dick.  I teach the marine how to tie a dragonfly harness; he ties me up, grabs a spreader bar upon my request, and locks my ankles into it.  The Europeans are taking a break, so I look over at the French guy and ask politely if he’ll bend me over and fuck me while I suck the marine’s cock; he gladly does.  It’s hard to get into a rhythm, but I’m having the time of my life being pushed back and forth by two dicks, precariously balanced.  While this is happening, the woman I came with starts spanking me, and the Danish woman whispers in my ear, “You’re such a good English teacher!  You take his cock so well!”  I come in waves, pleasure undulating through my body, satiated with the rapture of having a long-standing desire fulfilled.

I just think: Thank gods for the military curfew.  We eventually clean up and leave at 5:00 to get pho across the street, drained and content and maybe a little sore, looking forward to a long morning of deep sleep.


With the exception of some spanking, light bondage, and role playing in my university (er… high school) relationships, my first introduction to BDSM was Mistress Natasha.  She was the real deal.  I went to a swinger’s club a few times when I lived in New Orleans – more out of curiosity than a desire to engage.  When I heard from a go-go girl there that a professional dominatrix came in mid-week to do fifteen-minute sessions with members, my eyes grew as big as saucers.  I. Couldn’t. Wait.

She was tall – at least a good six inches taller than me.  Then again, it could have been the boots.  She had long, swinging hair and wore all black – and she was stunning.  She moved gracefully and spoke slowly and deliberately, her eyes feline and surrounded by liquid coal.

I asked her if she would do a session with me; yes, she said, as long as I didn’t mind spectators.  I gave my consent; she took me into a dark room the size of a walk-in closet that had a St. Anthony’s cross against the back wall.  She instructed me to take my clothes off, fold them, and put them in a neat pile in the corner. Watch, too, she said – leaving a watch on is just tacky.  That stuck in my memory for years and was something I would go on to tell my own clients.  My heels, she said, could stay on.

She told me to press myself face-forward against the cross, to which she bound me with leather restraints.  The cross felt cool and reassuring against my skin.  I was too giddy to be nervous – feeling her soft but sure hands against my wrists and ankles filled me with exhilaration and anticipation.  I remember the first time the big, thuddy flogger hit my back; it felt glorious.  It felt like waking up.

She flogged me and ran her hands over my back and bottom, soothing my pink skin.  She scratched me and whispered dirty words in my ears.  She had my rapt attention even though I felt like I was dreaming, and when she took me down from the cross and told me to get on my hands and knees, I was gutted to be almost finished and also relished being told what to do by a woman so confident in knowing what she wanted.  She poured hot wax on me, which rolled down my back and pooled just above my ass, before telling me to kiss her boots – which I gladly did.  I thanked her for her time and told her how much I enjoyed the session; I was so completely riled up by it that I grabbed the woman I brought with me and dragged her into a private room to ravage her.

In my relationships, I’m a switch.  I can play either role and feel comfortable in both, but in my heart of hearts – in my fantasies – I’m pure bottom.  Not seriously masochistic and not truly submissive (I’m more likely to say “Fuck off” than “Yes, sir,” if the wrong person tries to tell me what to do), but for sure a bottom.  Mistress Natasha really opened that door for me, and I’m forever grateful.


I like scenes like this: First, I’m told that (s)he knows I have done something wrong; my behavior necessitates some kind of reprimand.  But (s)he understands – we all make mistakes.  Maybe there’s something I can do to help sweep this situation under the rug.  Mum’s the word.


I’m smarter than (s)he bargained for, however; I’ve got dirt, too.  After relishing every sting and burn of my supposed punishment, I turn the tables.  I, too, have a strong hand and a desire to play.


I don’t think we’re quite finished here, I say, and smile.  It’s going to be a while.

Sinful Sunday

Broad Stripes

Alex heard the crop swish through the air before he felt it.  That sound alone was enough to make his cock twitch – or at least it would be, if it weren’t in a cage.  He wanted to say as much, but all he could do was groan with satisfaction as it came down hard on his left cheek.

“I think I’ll give you nice, even stripes today,” Sir said as he walked around the back of Alex’s legs, perched on tip toes to strain his balance against the bench he was bent over.  Alex’s heart pounded at the thought of the long, beautiful red marks coloring his bottom.  Sir hit his right cheek with force.  He tensed briefly, then allowed the endorphins to flow through him like a full-bodied pinot.

Sir hit him again slightly lower than before, then circled around front this time, the bulge of his cock visible through his trousers.  Alex felt him lightly tap the crop against his pale flesh like a golfer practicing her swing before following through.  He wanted to be exact in lining up the stripes; Alex grinned at the thought of his perfectionist tendencies, a droplet of drool slipping around the edge of his ball gag.

Thwack.  Another stripe.  An inch down.  Thwack!  Another.  Alex heard footsteps before once again feeling the light tapping of leather on his skin.  His eyes were now closed, his breathing even, his muscles starting to relax.

“Well, I’ll be goddamned,” Sir said out of the blue, bringing Alex out of his reverie.  Alex kicked up a hairy right leg behind him; Sir removed his gag.

“What happened?” he asked, still in a state of calm content.

“That bruise on your left hip that’s been changing color – it’s purple now.”

“Great!” said Alex.  “But why the surprise?”

“Congratulations,” Sir said. “Your ass is an American flag.  I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so patriotic before.”  Before Alex could get the loud laugh all the way out of his body that burst forth from his gut, Sir had managed to get the gag back in place and the laugh was held inside, ready to come out later.  For now, there was more work to be done.

Wicked Wednesday... a place to be wickedly sexy or sexily wicked

Good Sport

“Promise you’ll be a good sport?” asked Gem as she held her boy’s chin in her slender hand and looked down at his radiant eyes.
“Yes, Mistress,” he answered evenly, not moving a muscle.
“You know the rules,” she continued.
“Yes, Mistress,” he replied.

She slid her hand around to the back of his head, feeling his bristly hair barely making it past her fingers and leaned down to whisper in his ear: “Don’t give up too easily.  Have fun, and be a good boy.  And remember: this is not for you.  This is for me.  Your pleasure is my pleasure.  I’m so looking forward to seeing my friends enjoy you the way I do.”

She stood up, and he followed.  She turned to face three of her friends who had been watching the conversation. “Well, ladies,” she said, smiling a Cheshire cat smile and clasping her hands together, “I believe you know the rules, too!  Be kind to my boy and have fun yourselves!  I’ll be watching from up here.”  Her friends broke into their own nervous but eager grins, slung their backpacks over their shoulders, and nodded in assent. She turned back around to face Boy and told him he had a five minute head start.

“Go,” she said.

He started walking out of the room briskly, breaking into a run as he approached the stairs.  They all watched his graceful body sprint onto the lawn from a floor to ceiling bedroom window upstairs.  Soon, he had disappeared into the hedge maze below.  Gem looked at her friends, their smiles belying their anticipation.  He was beautiful and so eager to please.  A few minutes later, they wandered down into the entrance of the maze together, separating shortly thereafter to take different paths.

Susan was the first one to spot him.  He was walking slowly along the ledge, creeping silently.  Like a cat, she tiptoed up behind him and lightly tagged him on the shoulder.  “Looks like I’m first!” she exclaimed with delight.  “What would your trophy be, then?” Boy asked.  “I was thinking about how satisfying the silk of your shirt would feel against my skin –” she said, “but instead I think I’ll have your trousers.  I want to be the first to see the outline of your lovely cock.”

Dutifully, he removed his shoes, then unbuttoned and slipped off his trousers before handing them over.  “Thank you,” he said.  “May I continue?”  “Of course,” she replied, looking him up and down.  He walked off quickly and slipped around the corner while Susan waited patiently.

He’d been carefully avoiding cul-de-sacs the entire time, but now he found himself trapped in one.  No matter – he stopped and could hear nothing but his own shallow breaths.  He was alone, he was sure.  Coming out of the dead end, he felt a hand stop him before he saw the artfully manicured nails on his chest.  Lilia.

“So,” she purred, looking down at his boxer briefs.  “I see someone else got to you first.”  “Yes, ma’am,” he replied.  “What trophy will you have?”  “I’ll take your shirt, darlin’,” she said with joy.  He started unbuttoning; she stopped him.  “No – let me,” she said, continuing to unbutton his soft shirt languidly.  “You have nice shoulders,” she said, running her hands over them briefly.  “Thank you, ma’am,” he replied, his heart racing, now down to his undershirt, briefs, and running shoes.  “May I continue?”  “Sure thing, love,” she said, and swatted his bottom as he made his way down the lane.  Upstairs, Gem laughed as she watched him scurry away.  She could see what he couldn’t: that being so distracted by Lilia’s comments, he wasn’t watching where he was going, and that’s when he ran smack into Susan once again.

“Oh-ho,” she said, “I’ve found you once again!  I’ll have that undershirt if you don’t mind – I think it will look quite nice on me, especially paired with your pants.”  He blushed and removed it, one hand on the chest and one on the back.  He handed it to her, avoiding eye contact.  “Looks like it’s almost time,” she said.  “Be more careful – you don’t have much left.”  “Yes, ma’am,” he replied, and he was off.

A solid five minutes had passed; he was hidden in the middle of a hedge, completely convinced that he was invisible from passersby… until he heard a voice whisper into his ear, “Think you’re clever, do you?” as a hand reached in and grazed his hard, smooth stomach.  A warm hand attached to a reassuring voice.  A voice like bells.  Yuna.  She drew him out of the hedge.  “I believe I’m now the proud owner of one pair of black boxer briefs,” she said, smiling at Boy.  He started to slide them down. “Wait,” she said.

She opened her backpack, took out a double duvet, flung it upward with two hands so that it opened onto the ground, and sat down on it, looking at him expectantly.  “Now,” she said.

He once again took off his shoes and slid the briefs over his growing cock and down to his ankles, carefully removing them one leg at a time before handing them to Yuna, who patted the duvet next to her.

“Your turn to watch,” she said.  He sat in the middle of duvet and looked at Yuna as she stood up, his eyes briefly darting to the window above to see if he could catch a glimpse of his Mistress.  He couldn’t, but he could feel her eyes on him.  He could always feel her eyes on him.  Yuna was wearing a simple flowered summer dress, tied in the back; she pinched the strings of the tie between her thumb and forefinger and pulled, her dress falling to her waist, exposing her pert breasts.

She looked down at Boy.  “I want you to take my panties off for me – with your mouth,” she said.  He got up to balance on his knees and lifted her skirt up, and nuzzled his face against the lace of her crotch.  Her breath was barely audible, but deep.  He grabbed the top of her panties with his teeth, sliding them down a few inches, before darting his tongue over her clitoral hood, holding it there momentarily, and drawing it back.  He gripped her panties once again and slid them down to her ankles.

She stepped out of them and eyed him hungrily.  “On your back, please,” she said, getting a condom and cock ring out of her backpack.  He obeyed; she slid the condom down onto his now rigid cock and stretched out the disposable cock ring to place it around the base of his scrotum and the top of his dick before turning both switches on, making everything vibrate.  She blew a small silver whistle she was wearing around her neck before taking it off and flinging it to the ground.  Still wearing her dress, she hitched the skirt up and kneeled above Boy before slowly lowering herself onto his cock, then gently rocking back and forth.  He moaned, imagining his Mistress touching herself, watching from above.

“Don’t enjoy this too much,” Yuna said in staccato, finding it difficult to talk and fuck at the same time.  “The others are on their way.”

Gem, now soaking and wearing only a tank top, looked down to see Yuna straddling Boy while Lilia and Susan approached quickly from either side of the maze.  She mounted a dildo in the window seat and stared, enthralled, her hands pressed to the rapidly steaming glass, thinking: AirBnBs couldn’t possibly get better than this.

Wicked Wednesday... a place to be wickedly sexy or sexily wicked

Momentary Perspectives

In the past year, I’ve come to really love my pubic hairafter having a partner (The Texan) who didn’t want me to shave it, ever.  It was as if having permission to let it growout – a permission that stemmed from desire – allowed me to experience how good it felt.  I love the way it feels physically when I push my fingers through it, how protective it feels, and how it’s come to be symbolic of a love that embraced a natural version of myself, just as I am.  For so many years, I’d shaved because I thought that was what was expected of me – I lived with the razor bumps and itchiness and never stopped to consider my own feelings.  It took a partner’s preference to make me reflect on my own.
I thought about writing a narrative piece for this, but when I think of pubic hair, several small and fleeting moments and memories pop into my head all at once, disjointed:
          a friend with benefits refusing to go down on me (that didn’t last long) because he thought shaved vulvas were pre-pubescent in appearance and it freaked him out;
          the first time I saw a shaved cock and balls and how much it freaked me out.  I didn’t say anything, but I was surprised and a little bit turned off.  Obviously not surprised anymore, but it’s still not my thing;
          a former partner who loved having her pubic hair tugged, just a little, while being eaten out, which was super hot;
          randomly finding The Texan’s pubic hairs all over my apartment and smiling every time, even weeks after he left;
          experiencing the different textures of the hair of different partners and relishing those differences
          running my fingers through the soft mound of hair that grows and grows when I travel (along with some pretty luxurious armpit hair, which I also really like growing out);  
          burying my face in a partner’s pubic hair after particularly sweaty sex to deeply inhale the scent of our fucking
Maybe that’s it.  Pubic hair catches the smell of us moving together in sync.  Maybe that’s why I’ve come to love it.  Or maybe it was finding one hidden behind my couch and suddenly remembering riding him, wave after wave of orgasm crashing down around me.  What was once a burden is now a deep well of pleasure, a replenishing source of desire.