blistered lips

“I’m not so sure about this.”

You smile, looking into her eyes as you continue to gently wind the nylon cord around her slender wrists. She looks so vulnerable, so frail, so perfect. Her hesitation quickens your hunger; you feel it, a rapid flair deep in your belly.

“Sweetheart, just relax.”

Your voice is quiet, almost a whisper. You watch the lift and fall of her naked breasts as she breathes, petite sighs of trust and tremor mixed together. You raise her wrists to the headboard.

“Oh.”

It’s barely a word, more of a shuddered gasp or nervouse moan, that escapes her lips as you tie her wrists, there above the carmel tresses of her upswept hair. You tighten the knot you’ve made and she whimpers. It rushes through you again. A roiling quake of lust and desire. You swallow. You want to take her now.  No, not yet.  You swallow again.

“Does that hurt?”

“No. It’s okay.”

“Spread your legs, Amy. Put your feet out to the edges of the bed,” you say, moving down to the footboard and unfurling a new piece of rope. You watch her legs slowly widen. The flesh at the top of her inner thighs quivers. The lips of her cunt part slightly, and you can see its inner moistness.

“You look so beautiful.”

She doesn’t smile, doesn’t say anything, just looks at you from under her thick lashes. Tenderly cupping the heel of her right foot, you begin coiling the white cord around her ankle. The flesh there is pink and taut, hot and dry against your knuckles. As you secure the cord, her calf raises slightly from the bedspread. She is your captive. Knowing this, seeing this, takes your breath away, but you quickly reach for the other foot.

Finally she is stretched before you. White cord binding her porcelain-smooth ankles and wrists, she is a sacrificial goddess, your goddess, your beloved.

“Fuck me.”

“What?”

“I said fuck me. Now that you have me tied up like this, fuck me.”

You hesitate.

“I mean it. Do it.”

This comes out in a rush of words, a sob, as she arches her back and pushes against the cords.

And so you mount your bound goddess.

“Would you like to come out of your cage for a while, pet?”

Hearing his Mistress’s voice at the top of the stairs, Matthew’s cock began to twitch. With each steady, slow click of her heels as she descended the steps, it grew and the restraining ring around his balls tightened, causing the attached butt plug to automatically begin vibrating. Hurriedly, he dropped off the cot and onto his knees, pressing his face to the floor of the cage in supplication, as he’d been trained.

“Heel.”

Keeping his eyelids lowered, he unbent from the waist to an upright position, bringing his arms down to his sides. Eyes focused on her black leather boots and remaining still despite the rippling sensation of the butt plug, Matthew listened to the key rattling in the lock of his cage.

“Well…”

“Yes, Mistress Diana, I would like to come out of my cage.”

“You do know I am going to beat you, Matthew,” she said, swinging the cage door open. If it weren’t for the constraining ring, he would have lost control, orgasming without permission, just hearing those words from her lips.

***

Matthew is again lying in his cot, Mistress Diana sitting beside him. She tenderly runs her fingertips over the welts along his neck and shoulder. Though he tries his best to suppress his tears, they escape, sliding down the sides of his face. “We will have to put some Betadine on these and the ones on your backside later,” she tells him. “I was rather rambunctious with my whip tonight.” Although his body is aching and tender, he answers her respectfully, “Yes, Mistress, if it is your wish.”

Reaching to undo his restraining ring, she continues, “Once you’ve healed, I have a delightful new metal and barbed wire baton we are going to try out.” He shudders–both at the thought of future torture and the sudden grasp of her hand around his cock.

She begins slowly stroking him.

“Would you like to orgasm for Mistress, Matthew?”

“Yes, Mistress. Please, Mistress, permit me to serve you with my orgasm.”

The rhythm of the stroking becomes more urgent, and Matthew feels his orgasm building. Now he is sobbing. The pain, her touch, his need, it is all too much. He feels her breath at his ear, her hair on his chest, can smell the sweetness of her shampoo. She whispers, “Then tell me who you are, Matthew. Tell me who you are, and I will let you orgasm.”

“I am your beautiful bruise.”

As well as being the title of Elise Sutton’s long-awaited and well-received book, Female Domination is rapidly becoming the sex du jour for an ever-increasing number of mainstream couples. Along with other out-of-the-closet carnal intimacies such as fetishes (feet & toes, nylons, leather, smoking….), homosexuality (Shhh! Don’t tell the republicans!!), masturbation (mutual and solo), strap-on sex (Surely, dear female reader, you knew this?), and the widely embraced metrosexual phenomenon (Google “sissy” or “feminization” or “panty boy.” I dare you!), the male desire to surrender control to an erotically powerful woman is no longer the “dirty little secret” it once was.

Being currently (and ever so blissfully!) immersed in Ms. Sutton’s book, and having a certain proclivity toward Dominant Phone Sex, I find this to be a singularly delicious expansion of the ever-evolving sex games boys and girls like to play. In other words, this is not your father’s phone sex any more! In fact, this is not even your father’s (or even your mother’s, Goddess forbid!) wet dream! The playing field has not only been leveled, but, irrevocably, skewed. And the allure of that sexy umpire-ess ordering you, a lowly bat boy, to crawl to third base and kiss her leather boots, is just too intoxicating to resist.

While I would never lay claim to being an expert in human sexuality, I am in the business of creating fantasy. More than occasionally I not only find myself with a front row seat from which to purview the conventional and not-so-conventional desires of the submissive male but am the privileged Phone Mistress who will mind-fuck him into subspace. Submissive men come in all shapes and sizes and flavors and perversions. What I find so delightfully disarming about these exquisite creatures is that they are –nine times out of ten– men of serious substance and quiet dignity. I can always count on them to be polite, congenial, accommodating, quick-witted, and downright, intoxicatingly clever. These men, over-all, are a sweet breath of fresh air. They have no hidden agendas. They dwell confidently and authoritatively in their every day and relatively well-balanced lives. And it is, indeed, a good life: Fulfilling, successful, accomplished…perhaps, even self-actualized. In fact, if we daughters had been raised by fathers like these, there would be no need for Jungian therapists, motivational gurus, self-help books, or Twelve Step recovery programs.

And, therein, beloved kinksters, lies the rub! When one is perceived as “in charge” in his everyday life, where does he go to find that sexual rapture that only can be realized when we give up control? While, courtesy of the Internet, we are all experiencing an expanding sexual consciousness (Even if to simply know, “You are not alone”), the submissive male has somewhat of a quandary on his hands. Most likely he has presented himself to his inamorata as, at the very least, a vanilla lover, and even more likely, an aggressive one. After all, that is what is expected of the “normal” man, right? While he and the rest of us are realizing that our nasty secret desires are neither as nasty nor secret as we once thought, he finds himself unable to bring this au courant flavor to the sexual table he, himself, has set. How does he tell his dinner partner (Perhaps, his cherished wife of 10 or 20 years?) that his palate now craves spicier fare?

I often tell my submissive callers that they are really just romantics on steroids. Even after a lifetime of pursuing, courting, loving, fucking, and perhaps marrying women, a man continues to be both perplexed and enamored with the ever-illusive Feminine Mystique. Not to torture a cliche’, but as has been the case since Eve bewitched Adam (Honestly, how much sweet-talk do you really think it took?) into eating her forbidden fruit, women have been dragging men around by their dicks. This really isn’t anything new; its just been “super-sized,” so to speak. Even in a situation where the guy is supposedly the dominant, let’s not fool ourselves, ladies and gentlemen. If his lady friend does not concede to dressing in evocative slut-wear, painting her lips cock-sucking red, donning the proverbial ball gag, and submitting to a bit of elaborate rope binding (not to mention some delicious bottom spanking), “Master” is not going to have an orgasm anytime in the foreseeable future!

There are as many variations to the D/s (Domination/submission) relationship as there are enthusiasts. This is the party of the season, and it seems everybody from the bootblack (male) to the CEO (female) has shown up. So here we are, all at the same party, just wearing different party hats. From the sensually sublime to the viscerally extreme, name your poison: Body worship, face sitting, bondage, forced feminization, cock and ball torture (cbt), orgasm denial & control, cuckolding, erotic hypnosis & mind control, humiliation (verbal &/or public), toilet training, objectification, and more, so very much more…it’s here for the taking.

Wallflower type? Looking for a little objectification? Grab your dick, take a seat, and don’t you dare move a muscle! So you think you’re the life of the party and wanna be Mistress’s party favor? Dangle that pretty pink lampshade over your head and jump up on the coffee table for some contemptuous browbeating while you squeal like a pig. What? You’re looking for the buffet? Right over here, darling! Now, put your head back and Mistress will just take a seat right here on your face. Mmmm…. Yes, it is a nice spread! And you? You say you’re not a guest, that you’re the pinata? Oh! They’re waiting for you in the dungeon. Just crawl down those stairs and around the corner. That’s right. Follow the smell of leather. No, it won’t hurt much.

Not much into parties? More of the homebody type?

Well….

If you have been a reasonably well-behaved partner in the course of a long-term relationship and think your ladylove is ready to meet the new & improved submissive you, you might want to start with some user-friendly (pun intended!) reading material. Elise Sutton’s book, Female Domination, is an excellent starting point. Because the author practices the FemDom lifestyle (she is married to her submissive) and regularly counsels female-dominant couples (her educational background is in psychology), the material she presents is backed by both personal and professional experience. Giving readers an intimate, firsthand peek into the everyday lives of “normal” couples who just so happen to be ardent practitioners of female domination, she presents an eloquent argument for the logic of the female-dominant relationship. Combining passionate commentary with a quiet spiritualism, Elise shares her personal history and evolution, examines the continuing social trend toward female empowerment, and explores the psychological “rightness” of male submission. This is a book from an intelligent heart that will speak to you and your lady’s emotions, intellect, and (keep your fingers crossed!) libido.

Need I say more? Now, go buy that book before I have to bitch-slap you!

“Take it out.”

He had to obey. She was his owner after all. Disobedience was not an option. She’d made that perfectly clear when he’d signed the slave papers.

“You like that thing way too much. It makes you stupid. Do you know that?”

“Yes, Miss Danielle.”

“When was the last time I let you relieve yourself?”

“Three months, Miss Danielle.”

“Go ahead and play with it, for goodness sake. I know you want to. It’s already dripping.”

She watched, bemused, as he tried not to squirm or groan, as he tried to refrain from stroking too quickly. “How badly,” she purred, “do you want that orgasm?”

“Oh, Miss Danielle, I want it so badly. I would do anything, Miss Danielle.”

“Be careful with your words, beloved slave,” she ran her long nails down his arm, then over across his left nipple. He shivered. There was something about her today, something calculating and sinister. It both excited and frightened him.

“I’m considering castration.”

“Oh, please, Miss Danielle”

“Please, what? See what I mean? That it makes you stupid? Speak clearly. Please castrate you or please do not castrate you? What are you trying to say?.”

But he was in the throws of orgasm, his fluid gushing, his member jerking, tears pouring down his face.

“Never mind. You just told me.”