Thursday, 29 September 2016



My fingers keep rubbing your wrist and I am waiting. It’s a moment that is intimate, focused, tense, but not -- not yet -- impatient. Seconds pass and you are not letting go of the candle and when I touch it, close enough to the flame so wax drips on my fingers, your grip becomes tighter.

I let go of your hand but stay leaning over you, looking at your face, the dark stripe of the blindfold, the grotesque adornment of the burning candle between your puckered lips encrusted with coagulating wax, the hissing breaths. Something shifts again and I’m suddenly aware of my arousal, of how sensitive my nipples are, of how my breasts feel fuller, of how flushed and wet my cunt is throbbing, of how raggedy my own breath is becoming.

You can’t see me smile, but I do, a shifting wave of warmth washing over me. I rub a corner of your mouth with my finger. “Let go of this one, J. I want your mouth.’’ Your reaction is delayed by a fraction of a second, whether by your dazed state or surprise, before I can gently remove the candle. I move it slowly away and pour the last few drips of melted wax onto your exposed neck. A sudden, violent shiver and a moan make me gasp, the candle is turned upside down and pushed somewhat violently onto your chest, over your left nipple, the soft, still hot, barely extinguished candle top squashed against your skin. I lean down again, my hair brushing your chest again and breathe a Marlboro and whisky tainted ‘’Good boy” into your mouth, the candle now rolling on the workshop floor, my nails scraping through the wax splatter, my chest pushed against your side.

I bite your lower lip, gently, then harder, but not as hard as I’d like to, then move myself so the weight of my upper body is covering yours, my hands on both sides of your face, stroking, scratching, pressing, feeling you, wanting you, my eyes fixed on your mouth, my breaths fast and  panting now, “Such a fucking slut. Look at you, J. No, you can’t, can you? But I can.  Shameless. All mine. Tied up for me. Your ass filled. And you love it all, don’t you, J? Dripping and throbbing for me,” my hand moves down, around the candles attached to your rigid cock, between your legs, under your balls to where the toy is vibrating.

You are moaning now, your head trying to roll side to side, the sounds coming from your mouth making me more aroused, my arousal making me want to break you into pieces,  “My deviant bitch boy. My filthy fucking whore. I want you like this so much. Oh fuck...” I am snarling my desire into your face now, all the beauty and all the grotesque ugliness of it, my own face lower down, a stream of obscenities murmured and hissed into your ear between flicks of my tongue on your skin and little bites on your earlobe, punctuated by my fingers pinching and scratching your upper body.

I’m not entirely sure if it’s what I am doing or the effects of the toy vibrating relentlessly inside you, but the way your body feels has changed, it’s tensing more and relaxing less, your head starting to loll as soon as I let go of it even for a few seconds, your mouth half open, the sounds deeper, even less articulate. I move away a bit, still remaining close to the board, my hands still touching you, but less mobile; one on your upper thigh, the other on the side of your neck, its fingers on the shoulder, its thumb lightly resting on your throat.

Your hips and whole under-the-waist area of your body are flexing, moving as much as the restraints allow, the ohhs and moans and growls louder as I watch you shiver through a heaving series of what certainly appear to be minor non-ejaculatory orgasms or very close edges.

My breathing is slower, I see you again, against the background of my want, reduced to this quivering mess of wax-covered, scratch-marked skin, thrown back head, mouth ajar, throbbing, twitching cock dripping precum just-below the candle flames, ropes holding you in place; horrible, broken, beautiful, infinitely desirable.

What happens next surprises even myself, I have neither planned it or felt it coming. I remove my hands from your skin, pull the toy out of your ass and pull the blindfold off your eyes, discard them both, move out of the way with a shove of my foot.

You are still panting, blinking, blinded even by the low light, but more aware, more here, less gone, trying to find my eyes with yours. I must look awful again, a red-faced sweaty disheveled mess, but I don’t care now, catching your gaze, my mouth curling up in a smile.

“Fuck...” you offer, somewhat redundantly.

“We’’ll see about that,” I say, briskly taking the candles out of your hands, putting them out as I do it, reaching to the workbench for a narrow knife, cutting the tape along the remaining two candles while they are still burning, pull the rest off with a snap accompanied by your sharp yelp, kill the remaining one with my fingers. The cock ties are next, other restraints follow, some impatiently cut, some untied.

You move carefully, clearly still in some kind of daze, and I help you sit up, rub your wrists and ankles, let you half slide half climb down the board. You lean back on it for a short moment, then try to take a step and wobble. I catch you before you slump towards me, my arms around you, holding you up a bit.

“Disappointed, J?”

There is no answer but the way your body feels seems to suggest a tentative “maybe a bit”. I hold you closer then grab as much hair at the back of your head as it’s possible and pull it back so I can see your face. I’m openly laughing now.

“You don’t think I’m done with you yet, do you?”

Two modes

I read this post by DomSigns, and was going to comment but (as usual) I started to go on for too long so it turned into a post of my own.

As I was reading Michael's post I realised not just the dominant side of my sexuality but my sexuality as a whole operates in these two modes of sexual engagement, and they can kick in regardless of whether there is a kink/fetish element to what I actually do.

One is what I think of as immediate carnal lust. It can be a greedy, I-want-it-now, grabby want. A kinky version might look like this, a more vanilla one would lack the name-calling or panty gag, and the pulling and pushing would be toned down, but be roughly similar. It can be slower, more luxurious massage-my-back-and-lick-your-way-down-my-spine indulgence. Either way, it's about the hot and the wet, the giving myself to the moment and taking what I want from it.

The other is just as DomSigns describes: oddly detached while concurrently  completely involved state of being. It's a process that involves both planning and on-the-go adjustments, doing things and gauging results, observing effects and experiencing reactions. Is it hot? Is it passionate? Yes, it's hot, and it can be very passionate, but it is also controlled and to a large degree it's that control - exercised and successful - that makes it hot. And that control applies not just to my partner but to myself too. It's a subtle shift to a space in which things are simultaneously sharply focused and yet distant.

The last paragraph of this fantasy scene is my attempt to describe it: like a trance, although I am not floaty, but so focused on what's happening to him that a large part of me is outside my own mind. There is no role I am playing because there is no ''me'' in the way I usually exist. My self consciousness has diminished, even though I feel acutely aware of what's happening with him and my part in it. It's the ''self'' part that has receded in the slow burning intensity of the now. 

But, as I said above, it's much less about the acts than the state of mind. It took me a while to recognize it for what it is. For a long time I couldn't quite work out what it was that I was doing, I couldn't work out what was in it for me. I was in my early 20's and I thought there was something wrong with me, with the way I would get annoyed if a guy I was having sex with tried to ''make it good for me'', with my desire - my need, even - to make him just be there and let me do my thing. With the way I would be happy not to come (not at the time, I sure would later), not because I wasn't turned on but because that wasn't my priority. Because of what I was getting from those encounters.

The control. And the reactions. The reactions are important.

The reactions are what is in it for me. All of them. Every move, every twitch, every sound. Every breath, deep or shallow. Every moan, let out or stifled. I want to crawl under your skin and inside your mind and I want to know all of it, I want to feel all of it. I want it all.

Thursday, 22 September 2016


For the previous part, see here.

I keep watching him, flames flickering above his body, the subtle changes in the tension of his muscles, the wax melting slowly, the first drips making their way down towards his skin. They won’t be hot, not even particularly warm, not yet. The tension is caused by the suspense, by the waiting, by the anticipation. And by the somewhat precarious arrangement of burning candles, no far from flammable materials, and oh so close to his skin.

He’s zoning out, moulding himself to his situation, to the restraints and demands I have put on him, and there is a part of me that wants to just watch him like this, watch the candles burn down for the next half an hour or so, listen to his breathing, deep but careful. Wait for the moment the flames start licking his skin.

And there is another part of me that is getting impatient and wants to introduce some extra predicament here, to disturb this static tension.

I turn away and reach into my bag again, take two steps and position myself at his hip level. His erection is less than full now, and what’s there is likely sustained as much by the straps that hold it in place as by his arousal. I nudge the candles splinting his cock with my fingers. The wax splatters, some on his pubis, some on his cockhead. He makes a short series of rapid snorting sounds through his nose accompanied by a muffled moan. And he gets noticeably harder. I rub the warm wax in with my fingertips. He groans again, his chest rising and falling much faster now. I gently push the cock-and-candles towards his belly, more wax spilling over.

“You like me to scare you, boy.”

It’s not a question. The way his cock fills up under my fingers a confirmation more than an answer.

“The next bit is going to be a bit fiddly, J. You might need to brace a little,” he can probably hear the hint of laughter mixed up with excitement in my voice.

I pull on a blue vinyl glove onto my right hand, slather some lube on, lean over him, reach down between his legs, glad now that I decided to raise his butt before.

“Hmmm. Fiddly and tight.”

I manage to slide my fingers in, somehow, locate the correct spot, manipulate his flesh so I can push the toy in, adjust it as well as it can be done in his restrained position. The candles are, amazingly, still burning, wax splattered all over his skin, and some on my hands too. He’s breathing heavily now, the air entering and leaving his body through his nose with an audible hiss, the candle in his mouth trembling, its flame flickering wildly with each breath. I pull the glove off and discard it, and just before moving away, drag my nails along his inner thighs, from the groin to the knees. I love to feel him shiver, and this particular shiver is so sharp and abrupt that it makes my own hair stand on its ends at the nape of my neck.

“We’re all good, then,” I smile at him even though he can’t see me do it and flick the toggle on the remote control.

His next breath comes not as a hiss but a choked splutter, a groan that spills from around the candle in his mouth, rising to drown the buzzing sound of the toy. I can see his fingers close on the candles in his hands in a death grip. I press the function button on the remote again, repeatedly, until the vibrations reach the more intense, deeper rumble pattern instead of the initial fast surface buzz.

His whole body tenses up, looking as if it was trying to arch up, stopped only by the restraints holding him.

“Too much, boy?”

He can’t really answer. I get closer to him and run my fingers along his forearms, the inner surface of each of them, lean down and lick the left one all the way to the wrist, holding my hair away from the candle flame, then whisper into his ear.

“You’ll manage this for me, won’t you?”

I rub his left wrist with my fingers, my thumb below the rope cuff, my middle and ring fingers above it, reaching towards the candle, ready to take it if his grip relaxes.

I hope he knows that if he lets go now, I’ll take them away, free him from his predicament. I also hope that he knows that I don’t want him to do it. I hope he knows how much I love watching him like that, how much I love doing these things to him, how much I love that he lets me do them.

My fingers keep rubbing. I am waiting.

Wednesday, 21 September 2016

Five candles

This is a continuation of the scene from the previous fragment.

I’m high, almost dizzy, my eyes already scanning the workbench for the next prop.

There are candles there, not really belonging to the workshop, but a box of beeswax ones I brought here earlier, slim, tall and tapered. I am not entirely sure about the safety of what I am going to do next, and in a nod to that, I move couple of tins of solvents and oil away and make sure the floor around my arrangement is clear of shavings and sawdust.

“Back in a second, boy,” I say and go to the kitchen to grab a jug of water and a thick rag, which will have to do in case of any emergency.

Then I take the candles out of their box and lean over him again, running the bottom end of one along his side, across his abdomen and back up to his neck. I pick it up and move it to his face so he can smell it, then place it flat on his chest below the rope and roll it down his belly with a flat palm of my hand, all the way to the base of my cock. He's shivering.

''I have five of these, J,'' I pick the first one up and place it in his left hand, wrapping his fingers around it. Then the second one, in his right hand. ''You'd better be careful with them.''

''Yes, M. Yes. I'll try.''

''Good boy.''

His fingers clench around the candles, he tenses up waiting for the next one.

''Open your mouth, boy,'' I slide the third candle between his lips. ''Hold it there. As straight as possible. I suppose your eyes are protected... but you still don't want to bite through this one. Especially once it's lit.'' His mouth closes on the candle in response, his breathing deeper again.

I make a step down the length of the board and arrange the remaining two candles along my cock, making an arrangement with two narrow strips of duct tape. His back is slightly arched, all his muscles tense, and he makes a very muffled groaning sound, but he's still fully erect, the shiny skin on the glans stretched, balls bulging from under the ties. The candles are long enough to extend above the cockhead, looking like a strange sort of makeshift splint. I wonder how long it would take for them to burn down enough for the flames to start licking his flesh. This thought makes me shiver.

''J. If you want me to stop what I'm doing now, you'll drop one of the candles you're holding in your hands,'' I wait for a few seconds, giving him time to act, but he doesn't loosen his grip on the slim wax cylinders.

''If you want me not to light any of them, drop a candle,'' I wait a little longer than the last time. He holds on.

''OK. Good boy,'' I slowly stroke his inner thighs, then move away and pick up a box of long matches. My hands are shaking just a little bit, but I steady them, taken up by the intense focus on what I am doing.

The strike of a match sounds surprisingly loud in the silence of the room, and he flinches briefly.

''Steady now, J,'' I lean over and light the candle in his left hand. I do the one in his right hand and use another match for the one in his mouth, straightening it a little before I light it. The ones attached to my cock are a doddle after that.

They burn clean and even, with a very faint aroma of honey. It will be a short while before the wax starts dripping down and I lean back on the workbench, watching, my eyes never leaving the tableau I have created of his body. He's quiet, a little less tense, but not making many movements and the ones he makes are small and careful, even within the confines of his restraints.

''I'm going to switch the main light off and only leave the bench light. It will look better this way,'' I make the few steps to the light switch, but keeping an eye on him still.

''I wish you could see yourself now, J. It's fucking brilliant. The flames and the shadows on your skin and the wood. The ropes. I can see your every breath because the flames flicker a little when you exhale. Especially the one in your mouth,'' I reach out and stroke the side of his neck and his collar bone, to rest three fingers in the soft hollow above where his clavicles meet. I can feel him swallow, I can feel the air going in and out his lungs, and hear the slight hiss and huff when it passes through his nose.

It feels like a trance, although I am not floaty or spaced out, but so focused on what's happening to him that a large part of me is outside my own mind. I'm not performing, not just not for him, but also not for myself any more. There is no role I am playing because in some sense there is no ''me'' in the way I usually exist. Not only my self consciousness but also my self awareness has diminished, even though I feel acutely aware of what's happening with him and my part in it. It's the ''self'' part that has receded in the slow burning, quite literally at this particular moment, intensity of the now.


This old post has been revived for Molly's Kink of the Week. 
See what others have to say about wax play:


Tuesday, 20 September 2016


The kind of arousal, the kind of want, the kind of desire, the kind of greedy, almost furious lust that starts to border on need.

The kind of desire that makes me want to grab you the moment you step over the threshold, or even before that, and use you to satisfy that greed.

Not “use and abuse” you in a more or less elaborate fetishistic fantasy but use you simply because I’m hungry and you are there, and I don’t want to think of whether what I crave conforms to any notion of being used you might have as long as you let me do it.

And there is nothing slow and considered about what I do, or even fast and considered.

All there is is my hands on you, grabbing the items of clothing and pulling them off impatiently as I kick the door shut, shirt buttons flying when I rip it open, my fingers sliding under your belt, my knee between yours pressing into your groin, my mouth on your shoulders and neck,

get the fuck ready because I want it now

my left hand lands on your cock as the right one struggles with the zip, you stumble with your trousers around your ankles as I lead you through the door, your dick in my grip,

kick those fucking shoes off and strip will you boy

and you do as told without a word kneeling down to undo your shoelaces while I watch you from the sofa my feet on the edge of it my knees up and wide my hand already under my bunched skirt rubbing the damp silk into the hot flesh, pulling them off, your eyes looking up at me from the floor

c’mere slut

you shuffle closer expectantly looking at my feet dark red painted toes covered in thin nylon of charcoal grey holdups the wide lace bands high up on my thighs

come closer and open your slut mouth

the rolled panties get stuffed in your mouth half way through your moan and I pull you closer, my feet on your calves and my cunt touching your cock it twitches as it slides along the slick skin

give me your cock slut

muffled mumble through the silk in your mouth

yours yours

and I get hold of it, run it along my slit, in circles around my clit,

and take you inside, deep and tight, my back arched my legs crossed behind your back, pleasure dripping out of my body, spilling out onto you, my hips rotating my cunt throbbing squeezing you taking you deeper

moaning as I fuck you as I grab your ass as pull you towards me even deeper in and

oh my god oh fuck fuck fuck so good boy

ohhh fuck yes

my cunt contracting hard not coming but just there, squeezing the pleasure spreading it like a thick layer of opalescent grey shimmering oblivion just under my skin you will not come until I have had enough of this even though at times it feels like it will never be enough and what then

my eyes closed and although I’m still somewhat aware of your panting and movements all I can care about now is the pleasure I take from you

the flashes waves and eruptions the slower tides and ebbs underneath each punctuated by my moans sighs groans barely articulated words whispered hissed shouted screamed


my ankles on your shoulders now my feet behind your neck my fingers clawing your ass digging into your flesh pulling you in with each thrust of yours of mine

and I want more and I want you to crawl deeper until I take you all and


When I whisper "you are a fucked up deviant whore" into a boy's ear, I am talking about myself too

Humiliation and degradation are often thought of as a psychological version of sado-masochism. It might be, brain-wise, but in my experience these are quite separate if often overlapping kinks. Separate from each other, but also separate from (if correlating with) dominance/submission. 

Still, calling someone names, and making them admit "horrible" (and occasionally even horrible) things about themselves can be pretty hot. 

For me - as someone who can't currently feed her sadomasochistic desires in real life, it's logistically easy. Simple to do remotely and a thusly inclined toppy female can, indeed, have a pick of subjects (or objects) for such games. Some of these guys are even serious about developing a richer, longer-term dynamic within limitations of the (mostly) virtual environment. What's not to like, huh?

And yet. And yet. Despite the fact that the person who introduced me to bdsm as a thing was a humiliation slut (this is not a value laden term for me, but a label, like ''masochist'', ''ageplayer'' or ''service-oriented submissive'') and despite the fact that since then I have had a few positive experiences in which humiliation/degradation featured, the ones which pivoted on that fetish never felt quite right

Tools and aims

For me, physical pain of others - even thinking about it, sometimes - is, or can be, arousing in itself. Occasionally, while having vanilla sex with a partner who isn't at all into pain, I long to hurt them, I want them to simply let me do it. Sometimes I fantasize about them letting me hurt them when I am on the very edge of an orgasm. I would gratefully accept them enduring it for me, if offered, although I'd much rather they got off on it too. Add to that the fact that physical pain is also something I have little interest in receiving and it makes it all pretty simple. 

On the other hand, humiliating or degrading acts do nothing for me as such, in themselves. If I ever fantasise about them, it's always with a focus on the state of the bottom/sub. 

How come?

One of the biggest appeals of D/s for me is the effect I can have on the bottom/submissive. The formalised exchange of power which manifests in a very real experience of something I'd call a flow of energy if it didn't sound so insufferably wanky. The way I can take someone to a place -- a place I can't go to myself -- and the way that taking them there allows me to go somewhere too. A different space, but also a very special one. One I am hooked on.

I can't define or clearly describe that place. I have never been there, I can only experience it vicariously and through them.  I think specifics vary by person. I read this post by PainAsPleasure and in combination with an online conversation about ''dismantling'' I overheard, it made me think (again) of some words that denote it: Broken. Dismantled. Pulled apart. Annihilated. Floating. Given. Taken. Owned. Held.

I still get off on their vulnerability ''broken'' state. Some people do seem to get into such states via degradation. Experiencing them like that, even though it happens by doing things that don't arouse me in themselves can be still pretty hot. But it can also run into a paradox to do with the aim of the exchange.

Theoretically, the aim is shared: to make the sub/bottom feel submissive and to make the dom/top feel dominant. And if this aim can be achieved with the same tools, great. But sometimes it can't. Sometimes the things that make my playmate feel submissive don't do much to make me feel dominant, and sometimes they do the opposite.

Sometimes making someone feel submissive makes me feel like a fetish-delivery instrument, makes me feel I am being used. And I don't get off on being used

Script mismatch and the spectre of a Real Submissive

This is, I guess, where I start to complain about do-me bottoms: people (OK, men) with a particular fetish, a fetish that often correlates with dominance/submission, but which doesn't equate it. 

This is, I guess, where I start to complain about men who are incapable or unwilling to see a "female dominant" as anything other than the template onto which their fantasies get projected. 

This is, I guess, where I could quote an eternally surprised ''oh, you are actually DOING IT FOR YOURSELF??" and talk about men who say they will do anything but in fact simply can't imagine a woman wanting them to do something they don't already want. 

But, although these are all valid points (and I could go on), it's not really fair. There is nothing wrong with do-me fetishism, and if the kinks match, a lot of fun and pleasure can be got from such interactions. 

The main reason I am sat here deconstructing this whole thing is simply because my personal degradation script/fantasy doesn't match the typical script/fantasy of a typical degradation seeker.

Obviously, there is a way round it. Two, in fact. 

One involves my going with the sub's script. Like this:  Hellllllo there you disgusting thing *waves a cold superior goddess bitch who would never ever dream of fucking a sub wave*. Nah. Thank you for offering this fabulous costume but I'll pass. Sure, I can go with someone's fantasy now and then, especially if I like them, or if what I get in exchange is good enough to barter. But in 9 out of 10 cases, it's just Not Fun At All. See the end of the previous section. 

The other involves him going with my script. This might mean an adjustment or it might involve shelving it completely. It might be executed as a barter of sorts, a sensible exchange (it's better to get some of what you want than none, no?) or it might involve being sensitive and responsive to my desires. To what I want, how I want it and when I want it. It might involve giving my desires a priority above his. It might involve finding the latter inexplicably (or explicably, even, in a hurrah for self awareness) arousing and wonderful, maybe hotter than any of the fetishistic acts we might or might not carry out. It might involve, y'know, actually submitting. 

The last scenario is lovely. But it is not common among self-designated male subs and in my (limited) experience, it's even less common with degradation/humiliation fetishists I don't know why that might be. Degradation, by playing out a scenario that threatens ego/self in the way comparable to how bondage/pain threaten the body, can be a powerful trigger, and maybe those fantasies become fixed in a way that makes them less amenable to submissive adjustments. Unfortunately, this makes such scripts troublesome for me. 

Getting muddy

Unlike pain, which I enjoy (consensually) administering almost regardless of what it does to my partner and have no desire to take myself, degradation is more complex, more twisted for me. 

Please note that when I talk about degradation, I don't mean embarrassing acts that are fun but I just can't get too worked up about. A guy wearing (my) silk panties under business attire or slurping his cum off my feet is plain dirty hot for me. It's not *degrading*, it's just sexy.

Degradation - questioning some aspect of someone's worth, or goodness - is a different matter. It involves quite a bit of rolling in the psychic mud and sharing of vulnerability. To show one's awfulness to another and to have them recognize it, acknowledge it, accept it, want it - and want you - is a wonderful thing. I wrote about it before. 

From the top's perspective, if physical SM can be described as wanting to break what you desire or love, then the former is, perhaps, admitting to desiring or loving, what is broken.

But for it to work for me, to get anywhere near the intensity and intimacy afforded by giving and receiving physical pain, the vulnerability - and by extension, the degradation - must be mutual.

Giving pleasure to, or getting off on giving pleasure to someone designated as no-good plays out my own no-goodness. Yes, I know that in his fantasy he isn't ''enjoying'' any of it, and in his fantasy my pleasure is unknowable. But that is his fantasy, and although it might work fine for other women, it doesn't work for me.

When I whisper "you are a fucked up deviant whore" into a boy's ear, I'm talking not just about him. I am talking about myself too. 

And he needs to recognise it, acknowledge it in some way, either in-universe or on its aftercare borders, otherwise there is no real connection, no exchange, no flow,  merely an instrumental interaction with a fetish delivery service. And, as I think I mentioned above, I don't get off on being used.

And then there is the recoil

The typical post play, post orgasm, post scene self loathing recoil of men who are into degradation play. This is, of course, the case for aftercare, and it can be sometimes hard enough to deal with as such, even in casual or online play, even from the simple ''top'' position.

But if the degradation is mutual, if it's shared, if it's my awful as well as his awful that gets exposed and acknowledged, then the recoil is not just about self loathing. It's also about rejecting the top. Remember: to want to fuck/pleasure something/someone designated as worthless says that I'm worthless too. If this "worthless" part is taken out of the playbox into the reality for him, then it applies to my reality too.


I find it interesting that most degradation fetishists don't see the above aspects, maybe purposefully refuse to grasp them even. It might be that it interferes with their own fantasy in which the dom has to remain clean. Maybe the standard degradation script is a kinked-up version of a Madonna and Whore image.

Well, I don't do Madonna. However much of a submissive you consider yourself to be, if you can't - or don't want - to be a whore's whore, we are unlikely to make good playfriends.