blistered lips

“Get your fucking pants down, now!”

Heart racing, you struggle with your belt. She doesn’t have a right to treat me like this, you think to yourself. You try to ignore the clammy grip of nervous sweat around your balls. I ’ve paid good money after all; she is really nothing more than a whore when you get right down to it.

The more you think about it, the braver you’re feeling. Mistress, my ass! Just who in the hell does she think she is to talk to me like that?

Ignoring your own better judgment, forgetting that your pants are now down around your knees and your dick is sticking straight up, you look up to say something, to somehow defend yourself against her scornful abuse.

“You timid, little piece-of-shit, loser. Who in the fuck do you think you are looking at?”

Her voice is cruel and unforgiving as she looks at you with cold, icy blue eyes—first straight into your face and then down to your naked, twitching cock. She smirks, and you know you are beaten, that she has you, that she knows you for the warped and twisted degenerate that you are. Your bravado is gone, your words caught dry and useless in your throat.

Wiggling her slender hand into a latex glove, stretching and pulling the latex to fit snugly between her fingers, she continues, her voice a wicked snarl, “Don’t even think about smart-mouthing me, asshole. You’re the one who called me. You’re the one who was so damn curious about a “FemDom” handjob. You’re the butterfingers who evidently can’t jerk off your own dick. You’re the underachiever who evidently needs an instruction manual on how to fuck pussy correctly.” Her voice is sharp and cold and you know now that there will be no kindness, no mercy. But your cock is throbbing as you watch her squirting lube into the palm of her gloved hand.

“Five.”

She spits the number out at you as her slithery fist grabs your prick and moves down the length of it. The shock, the suddenness of it, is so visceral that you almost shoot your load right then.

“Don’t you fucking dare, weasel boy. This dirty, nasty, useless prick of yours doesn’t cum until and when I say so. And that would be when we get to the number one. Got it?”

“Christ! Fuck! Shit! Yesssssssssss, Ma’am.”

You hear yourself, a whimpering, blubbering, mindless automaton. You are her toy: a helpless, filthy cock-toy to abuse and molest at her whim.

“Four.”

As her hand moves—once up and once down—you feel her grasp tighten ever so slightly. Oh, she is a gifted Goddess. You know that now and your urge to cum is almost overpowering. You can’t help yourself and begin to actually wail. “Please, Mistress. Please let me cum now. Oh, please.” You hear yourself and are ashamed, but cannot stop. “Please, Mistress. Let me cum now. Let me be your dirty filthy boy and cum now. Please, please, please, please.”

Abruptly she loosens her grip and—before you even understand what is happening—smacks your cock. Once. Twice. Three times. There is nothing, nobody but you and her, her hand and your dick. You actually swoon and feel yourself buckling when she grabs your arm and pulls you you back up.

“No you don’t,” she whispers sweetly, lips grazing your ear. The unexpected change in her manner has you spinning and powerless, totally focused on her. You struggle to speak, to tell her you adore her, to tell her you belong to her while your abandoned cock twitches and drips, pointing directly at her: your Mistress, your Queen.

“You came here for a FemDom handjob. Don’t you remember? Or did your brain melt and drain into your balls and leave you stupid? If you spew already, you’ll miss the show.”

She giggles as she moves away from you to sit in a nearby chair. You are tempted to beg her to come back, to jerk your cock again, that you will be a “good boy.” But seeing the look on her face you think better of it and are silent.

“That’s more like it,” she says, pointing between your legs. You are helpless, exposed. “That dick is now my property, my personal gear shift. Got it?”

Afraid to look at her, you nod, staring straight ahead. “Yes Mistress.”

“I’m going to start again in a moment, but this time I’m going to start counting back from ten.” Unable to stop yourself, you moan in frustration.

“Make that fifteen.” You bite your tongue.

“You’re learning,” she almost—but not quite—purrs as she stands up again and walks toward you.

“Now stand there with your pants down around your ankles like the gimp-loser dick-wad you are while I lube this glove up one more time.”

“And then we’ll try again.”

Humiliation is the beginning of sanctification. -John Donne

A while back, I tackled this topic for the book, Sex Kitten Presents The BDSM Issue. In writing that essay, Erotic Humiliation is Not an Oxymoron, I took a personal journey, an internal retrospective of sorts, recalling my initial shock upon receiving such a request and my eventual delight (and maybe even a bit of sexual excitement) with this particular form of domination.

I wrote:

The slave brings his desire to be dominated and the Mistress brings her dictionary and thesaurus, because it is her facility with language which authenticates her authority in this empyreal dungeon.

It’s no secret that I deeply believe in the power of words. They are, after all, what saved me so very long ago and far away. When I was too small, the world was too big and too many caretakers were impotently wicked and/or emotionally anemic. Even today, a library is consecrated ground for me–my church, my mosque, my synagogue, my cathedral–my sacred place of transformation.

And yes, at certain times, my dungeon.

Think about sex: the sex you do have and then the sex you think about having. I would bet that, regardless of your particular kink (high heel fetish? spanking? hard fucking? cuckolding? controlled masturbation? cross dressing? romantic sensuality?), the sex you think about having includes a lot of verbiage.

i.e.

• Rub your dripping prick down the length of my stiletto heel. That’s it. Now take the tip, just the tip, and run it around the ankle strap. Slowly, very slowly.
  
• You know you’ve got it coming. Over my knee. NOW! Hmmm. Should I use this ping pong paddle or my hand? Such a tender little ass.
  
• Beg for my fat dick, you little slut. Spread those legs like a dirty little whore and jerk off your clit. Beg for my fat dick, and then I’m going to ram it into you so hard that you you’re going to cry like a bitch in heat.
• I love you, baby, but I need big cocks and lots of them. So get in between my legs and clean up the mess, baby. Marcus and Jerome fucked me sooo hard. Look how swollen my cunt is. Lick it baby. Make it feel better.
  
• Do you like it when I wrap my little hand around this thick man-cock of yours and stroke it like this? Oh, you’re throbbing. What if I rub my pretty little French nail back and forth every-so-lightly across the frenum?
  
• Oooh…your cute little satin panties feel so good between your little sissy stick and my wet pussy. But I think little panty sluts deserve a good fucking. Go get the strap-on, sweet bitch-girl.
  
• I love you so much, darling. Fuck me harder, my beautiful lover. I want your cum deep inside of me, honey. I need it. I need it so bad.
  

See what I mean? (and if you don’t, you might want to schedule an EEG)

Anyway, for those of you who haven’t run off to call your neurologist, can you understand how verbal abasement can up the ante for the submissive man or woman? And for some, perhaps even be a more-intoxicating form of domination all by itself? More powerful than whips and chains? And is particularly apropos when the dungeon is virtual, a creation of the imagination, the meeting of two minds? Two well-developed, very kinky brains?

I also wrote:

This is BDSM without the net, unconditional love on Prozac, Creatine-enhanced tough love.

And I believe it.

Some of the most intense phone domination sessions I’ve participated in have been humiliation fantasies. Meaning that I have almost dived –and perhaps even did a very feminine swan dive– into subspace with the target of my verbal venom on more than one occasion. What Tom Petty calls “free-falling.”

Done correctly (dispensing “tough love” requires a measure of love, of trust, of mutual respect), Erotic Humiliation can turn the known world upside down for both Mistress and Slave–defying physical boundaries, transcending emotional and psychological bastilles.

It is a thing of great beauty and deep mystery.

And it all starts with words. Simple, yet all-powerful words.

Now and forever. Amen.

1. Cock Leash
2. Nipple Clamps
3. Studded Collar
4. Large Dog Pen
5. Butt Plugs (assorted sizes, electric, inflatable, etc.)
6. Chastity Cage
7. Wrist/Ankle Cuffs
8. Body Harness
9. Fetish Latex
10. Fetish Leathers
11. Strap-On Dildo
12. Ball Stretchers
13. Catheters
14. Urethral Sounds (of progressive sizes)
15. Enema Bags (varied selection of tubes and nozzles)
16. Cock Ring Assortment (aluminum, rubber, leather, vibrating, etc.)
17. Spreader Bar
18. Vacuum Penis Pump
19. Penis Prison
20. Assortment of Canes, Whips, Paddles & Crops

it’s the bitch in her
that keeps you on her dotted line
signed, sealed, delivered
your signature, her hand
done deal

used up and faded blue
the new you
(after all)

after all:
buckled down and tied up
your twisted tongue and caught breath
searching for sonnets

searching for sonnets
on hobbled limbs
and always archiform knees
to sing, to plead, to offer alms
to your silent siren
who never listens, never speaks
who only hears her own measure

it’s the bitch in her
that keeps you here and keeps you hers:
her cheap fetish
her pygmy romeo
her corrupt fuck

it’s the bitch in her
that’s taken you down
rubbed you raw
cut you clean
wiped you out
bled you, bled you, bled you

it’s the bitch in her
that fucks with you
fucks you up
fucks you over
and doesn’t give
a flying fuck about any of it

it’s the bitch in her
that has your attention
your cock, your devotion, your heart

it’s the bitch in her
that makes you her bitch

“Never underestimate the power of your cunt,” Martin had said to Addison not so many years ago.   And he’d meant it.  From the bottom of his heart.

And Addison, being smart and a bit on the wicked side, took his words to heart. It was easy to put two and two together–his words and his ongoing fascination with her pussy. The attention he directed to the V at the top of her thighs was different from what she’d experienced with other guys. They liked it, they liked it a lot. But Martin was absolutely obsessed. And it was this obsession that was his downfall. It made him stupid and weak, and easily manipulated.

So it didn’t take long–a matter of weeks perhaps–until Addison had Martin exactly where she wanted him: On his knees, cum-denied and at her service. It wasn’t the relationship she’d envisioned as a little girl dreaming of prince charming. It was, in fact much better in that she was most certainly a princess. A spoiled princess. Martin’s princess.

Tonight Addison was conducting a scent training session. Martin knelt before her, naked and eager, an obedient puppy moaning and mewling every time she tugged on his cock leash. “What do you want Puppy Martin? What do you want from Princess Addison?” Giving Martin’s cockleash two quick tugs, she widened the gap of her already spread legs, feeling the rose-print panties stretching tight into the slit of her cunt.

“Ooooh! Those panties feel so good against my clit, Martin. I may have to have you lick me tonight instead of just smelling.”

“Yes. Yes, please Princess Addison. I will lick your cunt. I will lick you cunt and make you cum so good. Please Princess. Please let me.”

“Don’t think for a minute that if I DO let you lick this cunt that I will let you cum. You get lazy and inattentive once you cum and I am not in the mood for such silliness. Do you understand, Puppy Martin?”

“Yes, Princess.” I will be good.. I promise to be soooo good for Princess.”

Addison giggled. During their entire exchange, Martins eyes had been ogling her panty-covered cunt, while at the same time his cock was jerking and twitching and a long, pearly string of precum was now dangling from its head.

“Oh, Martin. You are just too cute. I don’t dare let you lick my Princess cunt. You just might lose control. But we will continue with the scent training. Would you like that?”

She tugged on his cock leash three times and saw the gooseflesh rising all over his naked flesh as he whimpered. “Crawl over here between my legs. That’s it. Now rest your head against this thigh and watch as I pull these panties into my slit and get them all wet with Princess juices.”

Sliding her tailbone to the edge of the chair and spreading her legs even wider, Addison grinded her clit and vulva into the panty crotch, feeling the wetness there spread. Martin groaned and she could actually see his nostrils flaring.

“Can you smell it, Martin? Can you smell your Princess’s cunt?”

Martin groaned again, this time louder and longer.

“Let’s proceed with the training then.”

With that, Addison put her hands and the back of Martin’s head, pulling his face into her crotch.

“Smell, Puppy Martin. Smell my Princess Cunt until I tell you to stop.”

Wrapping her left leg around his neck, Addison picked up the book from the chairside table and began reading.

Martin began his breathing lesson with gusto.

Just when you thought it was safe to go back into the Library: My 451 on Freedom of Speech, Libraries, The First Amendment and Banned Books.

A book is the only place in which you can examine a fragile thought without breaking it, or explore an explosive idea without fear it will go off in your face. It is one of the few havens remaining where a man’s mind can get both provocation and privacy. ~Edward P. Morgan

In a perfect world, those who screw with The First Amendment would be sentenced to careers-without-parole as testers in ball gag factories. And why not? Why not let them see what it feels like for a change. Just a thought. Or maybe they want to take that away from us too?

Sadly, when it comes to Freedom of Speech, sometimes the last place we’ve been able to find it is in our libraries.

Which seems kind of weird, don’t you think? Shouldn’t at least The Library be hallowed ground? A quasi-church for those of us who actually know how to think on our feet and our knees? And even in between? For those of us who believe that truth is earned, truth is fluid, truth is personal? For those of us who believe that truth is found in life’s freely-given gift of perpetual learning? For those of us who know we will bleed more than we will ever learn, yet pick up the gauntlet anyway?

Because we know that apprenticed truth is the very marrow of all that makes us human? That suffraged truth is ours to keep forever? And that these self-learned truths are what truly sanctify us, make us whole, make us real? Because we know that human-ness and sanctification are one and the same?

Because we know that you can’t borrow truth: It just won’t stick to you. Or inside of you. Or up for you.

But some people try to do just that, over and over again. Unable to find the path, unwilling pay the price, looking for an easier, softer way — and missing the irony of their very own actions — they cling to their cookbooks, their bibles, their leaflets, their doctrines, their scrolls, their index cards, their cheat sheets.

Forsaking the wisdom of their very own hearts, ignoring the axiom No Guts, No Glory, they take the easy way out (instead of the harder way inside), looking to some Petrarchan authority to tell them what to think, what to believe, how to act. And they know they are right: Because they’ve got the rules now. They’ve got the rules and, by golly, everybody else better start living by them or else.

And so they set about the business of minding everybody else’s business. What else can you do when you’ve finally got the rules? What else can you do when you know better than everybody else? What else can you do when you’ve been, born again in the stagnate waters of vainglorious superiority, carved anew from the petrified rock of pseudo-enlightenment?

And the dirty little rat bastids just won’t leave our books alone. Forgetting that the very reason they know they are right and we are wrong is because they read it somewhere and that makes it true, imagining some knighted prerogative to “go forth and cleanse,” they slither into our libraries unannounced (but always invited) to bite the hand that originally fed them.

I’m just kind of sick of it. Books of all types, sizes, shapes and subject matter have repeatedly disappeared from the hallowed shelves on this most-American of institutions time and again. Thanks to the blessed and all-knowing storm troopers, we have to repeatedly fight for the right to read.

So let me ask you this: If someone takes a book away from me, do I get to take one away from them? Do I get to decide for them, like they want to do for me, what they shall read? Because I am the moral conscience for the world? Because I know better than you and them and him and her? And do we do this—tit for tat—until there are no books left? None to be found anywhere, every last shelf picked clean?

Just something to think about as Banned Books Week draws to a close. And I do hope you think about it. Think about it all year round. Think about a world stunted by intellectual pygmies who want to steal every idea ever found in a book, because they’ve never had an original one of their own, and it scares the hell out of them.

Think about a world without music, without poetry and even without prayer, because original thought is original sin…and we can’t have that, now, can we?

Think of a world, of all the worlds, contained inside the covers of each and every single book.

Think about all of this when…

…you walk into a library and your heart thrills at all the possibilities.

…you smell the musty books in your grandfather’s den and remember his smile.

…read a Shakespearian sonnet to her and see the look of love in her eyes.

…you grieve the ending of the best book ever as a last chapter looms ahead.

…you run across an old school book and remember how autumn always smelled so new.

Think about it.