Archive for November, 2008

Z is the one of the coolest bloggers i ever met.

I mean, seriously.

She writes like a perverted angel, and now she’s gone and set up a collective sex-toy review site, called The Pleasure Ground. unaffiliated with any one product manufacturer, but written about by experts.

And by experts, i mean sexy bloggers who use ’em. She wrote about it here.

And she invited me to join! Me! Li’l ol’ me.

I already submitted one piece, an oldie but goodie that appeared elsewhere under a previous identity of mine. Check it out, it’s a doozie.

I actually plan to write a piece in the next few days especially for the site, although i will probably cross-link to satisfy my inner blogwhore, on my preference between the various wrist restraints available on the market.


Despite me not being one to write many branded sex toy reviews (for a number of reasons, which i will elaborate on if enough people write in and ask me to), i highly recommend the site. Aside from having my purty li’l avatar in the sidebar, i share the space with a bunch of the blogosphere’s best writers.

And, unlike some, i don’t mean “best pals o’ mine” when i say “best”. I mean talented, eloquent, articulate writers, with a healthy passion for exploring sexuality and experimenting with toys. (And I’m serious about learning new things. Check out the piece about Hardwood Dildos. Made me zing with anticipatory pleasure. You learn something new every day. Heh.)

Oh, and a note to all the various sex toy manufacturers out there — feel free to send me stuff to review. 🙂

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My name is Sapphire. Sapphire the Fucktoy.

This is what my Dom calls me.

I love it.

I asked him to use my name. It wasn’t to assert my identity, or to spare me being completely submissive or anything like that. I wasn’t exactly sure why, but i knew it was something i wanted. I wrote to him:

I like how you referred to me as your fucktoy, your slut, your good girl…  However, i would love it all the more if you would also use my name — in this context…. I don’t know where you stand on this issue, or your philosophical leanings as far as using a sub/servant/slave’s name while in the throes of passion, but i’d be more than happy to hear them.

His initial response:

A big paragraph of what with no why.


I had to think about this long and hard before i replied. I wasn’t exactly sure why, and it took some serious consideration before i realised.

The first image to which he had me serve him was of him fucking me from behind, holding on to me by a leash, and saying my name: “Good girl, Sapphire… Good girl.” I had to have this image in mind, and masturbate until i came, hearing his voice saying my name in my head as i did.

The idea was and is incredibly arousing. No medical reason, or anything. It just added that extra level of spice, and it has featured in all my fantasies about him ever since.

It’s odd, because as i said before, it’s not that I’m attached to hearing my name in any deep and significant way. But the rules of everyone else do not apply with him — he is on a wholly different plane for me.

I explained this to him, ending thus:

It would mean a very great deal to me, although i will of course accept whatever decision you make.

(As Eliza Doolittle was wont to say, I’m a good girl, I am.)

The next time we met, his first instruction was “Kiss me.” As we kissed, the passion grew and grew until i felt my knees actually buckle.

He has this effect on me. I’m so lucky.

Suddenly, his hand, entwined in my hair, tightened its grip and jerked my head away from his. With a nudge from his other hand, he spun me around until his lips were close to my neck. He spoke as he kissed me, an arm holding me tightly around my neck, but not enough to move me to tears.

“So you want me to call you by your name?”

(Kiss, kiss, nip, kiss. My skin — on fire. My knees — buckling.)

“Yes, Sir.”

“Why, again? Give me a good reason.”

I reiterated. “It’s because you gave me the gift of hearing you say my name as i came, as part of the first time you gave me an instruction. It’s made hearing you say my name incredibly arousing to me, Sir.”

He smiled, I could feel it as he spoke.

“I like the name Sapphire the Fucktoy. I like that as a handle for you. I think it suits you.”

It does. It’s me.

Sapphire the Fucktoy.

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Update: Listed as Editor’s Choice on Sugasm 154. Thank you, RV!

I woke up feeling as though I’d gone 10 rounds with Mike Tyson.

I hadn’t, of course — a quick check to see if i was still in possession of both my ears proved that. I had, however, woken up after an evening of serving my fabulous Dom, and I literally felt as though my legs had been hung backwards on my hips. I ached — oh how I ached.

I do not complain, I merely remark.

However, this was all secondary. What was bothering me was a bout of extemporaneous weeping that had suddenly come upon me as my Dom was fucking me and using me the previous evening.

I’m not a crier, and certainly not a spontaneous one. This is not to say i don’t ever cry — I do, usually when moved by emotional situations — but in those instances it’s understandable, and more to the point, contextual.

Only on rare occasions have i ever burst into uncontrolled fits of tears, and i remember pretty much all of them from throughout my life. They all seem to be associated with medical situations, in a bizarre twist of circumstance. The first was when my GP, a crusty old buffer with a gruff manner and unpleasant breath, examined my rectum when i had persistently recurrent stomach pains as a young teenager. My mother was present at the time, and it was not abuse or misconduct in any way — but i remember being extremely shaken and upset.

The last time i recall such a tearful outburst happening, was a couple of years ago when i had what I would term as partly cosmetic surgery around the area of my left eye.

And then there was last night.

He’d fastened a soft leather collar around my neck to which was attached a long leather leash. (But of course! What use is a collar without a leash, you might well ask — and I wouldn’t know how to answer you.) At first, I’d been on my knees in front of him, worshipping his cock, balls and that sensitive area at the top of his thighs that he loves me to lick and nip at — I love to give him pleasure that way — and his sighs of bliss were gratifyingly welcome.

Suddenly he jumped to his feet, as is his wont, and ordered me onto the bed, on all fours, facing the wall. He arranged himself behind me, and pulled me down, slowly but surely, onto his cock.

“Gyrate yourself, gently, up and down, back and forth. Squeeze my cock inside you. Can you feel how hard you make me?”

I did as i was bid, enjoying the sensations coursing though my body. As you would expect, I adore my Dom, and consider him a god among men, especially in bed. But I’m serious about this — it’s not just mindless sub-babble. No one fucks like him. No one. And god knows, I’ve had a few. But I digress. Bad Sapphire.

As i moved myself, impaled on his cock, he pulled at the leash, softly at first, and then jerked it hard. I felt the soft leather tighten around my throat for a moment, and then to my amazement, i found myself bursting into tears.

Originally, I’d not wanted to have any kind of breath play involved when we met. The idea of wearing a hard collar terrified me. The feel of even the slightest pressure on my throat sends me into a blind panic — and it’s almost completely irrational, and I don’t know from where it springs.

Then we’d looked at his bag of evil sadistic sex toys, and i’d seen that the collar was soft and pliable leather, with no evil-looking studs, and he’d tried it on me, and I’d been fine. Mentally and physically, fine.

When i cried, i had no idea why I was crying. Of course, he stopped everything and bade me crawl back up to lie next to him, where he held me as I sobbed and heaved, and stroked my hair soothingly.

“What on earth is this? You weren’t short of breath and you didn’t use the safe-word. Are you OK? Why are you crying?”

But he said it with such care, and so soothingly that i cried even harder.

“I d-d-don’t k-k-k-know…” I stuttered through a veil of tears.

“Were you in pain? Did you feel you were choking?”


“OK, calm down now, there, there. Come kiss me, Sapphire-the-Fucktoy.”

He held me until i calmed down, and then sent me back to the end of the bed, and the end of his cock.

I am still at a loss to explain what happened. Not through lack of trying — god knows, I’ve been racking my brain ever since. So far, no scenario suggested seems right:

I can’t recall a suppressed memory. (Yes, i can see the irony in the statement.)  i just think that memory fragments would have begun to float back to me by now if there were any, and they haven’t.

Is it an irrational fear of choking?

Maybe i on one level long to be owned, and on another level hate and abhor the idea, causing me to encounter an incredibly complex inner clash of emotions, resulting in a bout of spontaneous weeping?

Either way, it seems to have opened floodgates, no pun intended. I’m not constantly tearful, but every so often i feel overwhelmed and well up. Then I take a deep breath and compose myself, and I’m fine.


Either way, I’m eternally grateful to him for the tender way in which he dealt with me when i cried. He was warm, compassionate and caring — and I realised once again how lucky I am to know this man, much more to have him as my Dom.

Even if he did make me cry.

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He called me beautiful.

My Dom called me — his slut, his fucktoy, the person he uses when he needs to… beautiful.


I knelt before him, worshipping his cock as best I know how, enjoying the sensation of his skin on my lips, and under my gently teasing teeth. I kissed his cock, nuzzling the head and adoring it.

And he called me beautiful.

He took a hank of my hair in his hand, but he didn’t pull. He grabbed it, and then, with his thumb, he stroked the side of my face.

“Sapphire the Fucktoy is beautiful. Beautiful when objectified. So very beautiful.”

I was unable to respond. It was a moot point anyway, I am not permitted to speak without permission.

I know his definition and perception of beautiful is very different to mine, mine being based on appearance as well as what’s in a person’s soul, and his having its foundation in how a woman submits, and twists and turns in order to please her master — but it was, without a doubt, one of the few times when i felt that the epithet handed me was done so with the utmost sincerity… and it touched my heart.
I’m fairly sure that my soul is beautiful, even if intermittently, but from an external perspective, it’s rare that I am so complimented.
I’m still more than a little shaken at the events of the evening, as you’ll understand when you read about when i cried, but it was wonderful. 
I don’t know where this thing is taking me. My head says I should walk away — actually, it’s less “saying” than screaming out loud. Or, to put it another way, were this a sign, it would be in foot-high neon letters. Flashing, no less.

But how could I ever walk away from him?

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Sugasm 152

The best of this week’s blogs by the bloggers who blog them. Highlighting the top 3 posts as chosen by Sugasm participants. Want in Sugasm #153? Submit a link to your best post of the week by emailing Radical Vixen directly at radicalvixenatgmaildotcom. Participants, repost the link list within a week and you’re all set.

This Week’s Picks
Sugarbutch Star: Maze – The Girl in the Red Dress
“She’s the kind of girl who brings out the worst in me.”

treat or … fuck
“He looked like I had just given him a car for Christmas and he gently took my hand and led me upstairs. ”

A Life Exposed and Amplified
“We were breaking the rules and being dirty.”

Mr. Sugasm Himself
Sugar Bank

Editor’s Choice
I told him I loved him. He gave me a pen.

See also: Fleshbot’s Sex Blog Roundup each Tuesday and Friday.

Erotic Writing and Experiences
Break On Through
Eiffel Tower
Fast Jenny
A Few Orgasms Before Bed
Goodbye, my Love
Mexican Girlfriend
Mixing business and pleasure
Mistaken Identity

Sex Advice
How to Have Anal Sex with a Big Penis
Is Fantasizing Wrong?
Is Sex Without Oral a Dealbreaker? You Decide.
Lasting Longer in Bed

NSFW Pics, Videos & Audio
Georgia Jones wants to go for a ride
HNT. Forest Nymph
HNT! (One more cherry, popped.)
Kamila – The Restoration
More from the knee socks series
PSA: Breast Cancer Awareness

Sex Work
Dating Civilians 101

Sex News, Reviews, & Interviews
A New Twist on an Anal Sex Toy
On Tuesday, Vote for Equality

BDSM & Fetish
-3 Days
Bad Girl
The big dodge
Blind date: Impressions of a Dom
Dirty Boy
egg scissors
Do you want to cum? How bad?
Jake gets Punished in Spanking Movie
Kneeling In Style
Long Night in Thee Cow Shed
Marked: An Open Letter
Mistress by Proxy, part 2 : the slut
The New Bath Brush
Pimping him out
Pondering Piercings

Sex Humour
Friday Poem: Achy Achy Cunt

Thoughts on Sex and Relationships
Hubby’s Halloween Hit. Confession #167
The Space Between
Two women, two stories

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Deprived of what? I hear you ask.

It’s not unusual for a Dom to withhold the thing most essential to the being of his servant, slave or sub — wherever they slot in along the sub-o-meter, and whatever the agreement between they and their master — the concept of denial is one of the basic tools of torture that a master has at his or her disposal.

My master deprived me of my words. The essence of my being. Not my written words — thank god, that would have been a safeword-inducing occurrence — but my spoken words. It was a highly unusual situation for me. But, as ever, I was happy to fulfill his wishes — happy to please him. My goal was — is — to make him happy. ‘Nuff said.

It did not change, help or hinder the outcome. Never before have i been simultaneously satisfied, denied, spaced-out, focused, aroused, in pain, and utterly, totally fucked. I tingle all over, still, inside and out. I couldn’t do enough for him — I’m not sure that I even did.

At one point, i lay supine — at his behest, of course — while his hand explored my cunt, and his mouth nuzzled and nibbled at my breast… not the traditional position for a sub, although god knows I am not complaining. It was wonderful. I was owned. Possessed. His fucktoy. His slut. And yet I felt — how should I phrase it? Cherished? Kinda. Needed? Maybe. Wanted? Definitely. As though I could lie there under his hand forever?

Hell, yeah.

He once told me that his eventual goal was to have me adore, worship and love him. It’s not as distant a goal as it once may have seemed. I worshipped him tonight, with my tactile lips, tongue, fingers on his body, and my body wherever he wanted it to be.

I came i don’t know how many times. I know i asked permission every time, except for the g-spot orgasm gushing moment — I’m still unable to control that orgasmic urge, love it though i do. Fortunately, he’d already told me to come, so the issue was neatly avoided.

At first I was deprived of my words by his command. By the end of the evening, when he permitted me to speak freely, I was hard pushed to find words to express myself. How did he manage to be so brutal and yet so tender? So dominant, and yet so sensual…

I reflected on this as we lay there recovering. I love the controlling part of him, even, to a certain extent, the cruelty that accompanies it — else why would I become his slut? — but i was unaware of and therefore all the more surprised and delighted by his sensuous and tender inclinations.

So intense an experience that I was actually speechless. He’d caused me to perpetuate the effect that he had initially ordered… if that isn’t adoration, then I don’t know what is….

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Important note: This piece was originally written elsewhere, by me, under a different identity.

I do love a little hair-pulling. At strategic moments.

I first discovered this many years ago, when I was but a lass; innocent and unaware of the many perversions that existed in the world; and more to the point, how much fun they’d be to try.

I had a friend back then, called Jamie, whom I met when I was managing a bar in a venue at the Edinburgh Fringe Festival. We’d become very close (if platonic) over the course of the three weeks that the Fringe lasted, and a month or so later, i went to stay with him for the weekend, at his parents’ place, which was about 2 hours drive from where i lived.

Jamie was the first person i ever met who was into S&M, as it was then called in those circles. I was absolutely fascinated, and not a little horrified, but I couldn’t stop wanting to hear more and more of what he had to tell me. He would regale me with tales of spanking and bondage and mutual mutilation (the sight of blood gave him a raging hard-on), and restraint and violence and so on.

Though initially shocked the first time he told me, (although I was already self-conscious enough to keep an outwardly cool composure, take a long drag of my cigarette, and exhale nonchalantly, saying “Yeah. And?”) I very soon regained my equilibrium. It was partly this whole thing that kept us both platonic. Hey — I was a young and naive thing back then.

There were serious sparks of attraction that flew between us, constantly, that were like the elephant in the room. Naturally, once away from the commune-like setting of the Fringe, and alone in a cosy little house, said sparks finally combusted into full-blown flame, and i found myself lying in his arms by a crackling fire, ostensibly to go to sleep, but as soon as the lights went out, being kissed with an ardour that few have matched since.

It was as he kissed me that his hand crept up my neck, and through my long tresses until his fingers were tightly woven into my hair. Then, very gently, he grabbed the clump in his hand and pulled.
It was like an electric shock went through my body, from the very roots of the pulled hair all the way down to my clit. I remember gasping, and pulling back my face from his, where he could see from my excited expression how much i enjoyed that.

He kissed me again and pulled harder and I moaned, involuntarily. It felt marvelous.

Then came the surprising thing. He gently pulled his lips away from mine, and held me close, rocking me softly back and forth.

I looked up at him, puzzled. “Why have you stopped kissing me?” I asked him, in wonderment.

“Well,” he said, looking at me very intensely, “It’s like this. Either we stop kissing and curl up to sleep and wake up tomorrow morning still friends, or I continue kissing you and end up actually physically hurting you quite a lot.”

Not being the woman then that I am now, i demurred from the latter option in favor of the former.

O foolish young Sapphire, if you only had known then what you know now….

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