Feeds:
Posts
Comments

Archive for the ‘Give yourself over to absolute pleasure’ Category

I find that I am never able to entirely lose myself in a moment. To the extent of about 90-95% percent, my mind is floating in the air, moored down only by a firm and reassuring arm. But that rogue 5-10% of my brain is racing, creating a potential future piece of writing in my head.

[One could assume that any erotic experience I had was merely fodder for my writing portfolio. Well, you know what they say about assuming. This is not the case, although a lawyer could likely argue the fuck out of such a presumption.]

My erotic experiences, once a veritable festival of carnal experimentation, are now carefully selected. For me, it’s about the meeting of minds. A chemistry rare, delicate and intricate, that, once established, promises to strew the path ahead with surprises and perspicacity. But there is no predictive map or legend for this path. It’s all pretty much a crapshoot.

******************

I stood, facing the window, head pulled back by my hair, and a comforting, warm arm secured around my upper torso, as if anchoring me to the ground. Tiny, almost imperceptible butterfly kisses were planted all over me, and suddenly, unexpectedly, I felt myself all but take flight.

Understand something very significant. A gentle touch is not what usually turns my knees to butter. In fact, I’d go so far as to say that the feeling of tiny butterfly kisses is something I don’t even usually notice. And yet there I was, headed for the ceiling head first, as if I were filled with helium. (Ethereally speaking, of course.)

In my head, while 95% of the little man in my head was committed to the mental floatage, 5% of him was fiercely writing notes on “I never fully understood the meaning of the word “sensuous” before”. It’s true. Today I learned the real meaning of the word.

The invited touch of another’s hand on your skin is usually a good feeling. I speak of something that far transcends this. The sensuous feeling of his lips on my skin transported me to some far-off plain — and the only way I can explain it is that it was chemistry: the who (him) far more than the what (tiny, gentle butterfly kisses, cloaking me in gossamer as I flew).

His hand on my shoulder made me shiver. His arm around me suffused me with a delight I’d not felt in a while. And through all this — the kissing continued. And higher and further I flew, the feeling continuing to soar within me, the slightest touch sending ripples of ecstasy through my nervous system.

Was this how, or why, he managed to elicit ejaculatory orgasms from me almost non-stop? My still-wobbly knees are testimony to how thoroughly I irrigated the surface beneath me time and time again.

Was this why, as I sat enfolded into a tetrahedral bear hug, his body still entwined around mine, panting for breath and coming back down to earth, that I felt so comfortable and safe?  Was it why I could have stayed there until now?

Was this how he felt too?  Was my touch — be it from my hand or from my lips — sensuous to him in an equable manner? I so delighted in hearing his moans of pleasure; it enhanced my own pleasure tenfold, so I did my best to elicit as many as I could.

Was this why, each time I looked into his eyes, he was always looking into mine? Whenever I looked away, I felt him watching me, waiting patiently until I met his gaze once more– and each time I looked back, he smiled softly and I instantly understood what his smile was saying.

It would certainly seem that way.

There is sensuality, and there is that which is sensuous. I’ve now had the difference between the two proven to me without a doubt.

Everyone should be so lucky.

Read Full Post »

Thank you for making me feel so relaxed and welcome. Thank you for liking so many of the same things that I do, and concurring on so many others. Thank you for the tea with milk, and for then rendering said tea irelevant as my mouth was busy elsewhere.

Thank you for stroking my skin, and playing with my hair. Thank you for being so much fun to be with.  Thank you for being a wonderful kisser. I could kiss you for hours, days even. I might end up looking something like Mick Jagger, but it’d be worth it.

Thank you for taking me from zero to tsunami in under 10 seconds — a feat hitherto only ever achieved (speedwise) by my glass friend. Thank you for taking me from behind; it’s my favourite position (see above “liking the same things as I do”).

Thank you for hugging me and holding me close. Thank you for making me laugh, and then laughing at my attempts at humour. Thank you for being so damn sexy. Thank you for making me feel so natural and happy.

Thank you for letting me pleasure you. Thank you for getting hard for me. Thank you for telling me to suck your balls — I’d have sucked them anyway, but I really enjoy being given, and following, (certain) orders in the bedroom (from specific people).

Thank you for the one for the road. It did indeed last the whole way home, the rest of the day, all of last night and is still going — not so much in terms of orgasmic buzz but in terms of glowing from the inside out. Were I to walk past a Geiger counter, I’d be surprised if it didn’t light up and dance all over the surface on which it stood.

Thank you for everything — and in particular, for thanking me. I can’t think of a higher compliment. As you said to me, it was wonderful having you, and I couldn’t agree more.

Read Full Post »

When warm embrace
Becomes tight caress
Imprinted, skin on skin
Essential proximity
My face buried in you
As if you were oxygen
The need to clasp
To hold on tight
That abject hunger
Insatiable need
To inhale you
Drink
My fill
Devour
You.

Read Full Post »

Time spent apart only increases the intensity when we re-connect.

On the rare occasions that the time between our special times together gapes wider than usual, the joy of re-connection is virtually tangible. Like two randy teenagers, our skin is always in contact; his body all over my body, entwined and intertwined, wound around each other like softly tangled strands of suede leather.

The passion rises, skin on skin, leather on skin, moulded kitchen plastic on skin, hair tugged, wrists and ankles cuffed, eyes covered, and then revealed — I reach my apex again, and again, and again. My body writhes and gushes, my inner child screams a release, and I soak everything within a four foot radius, then collapse in a heap.

The afterglow — the panting regrouping of our embrace that is part-cuddle, part-rest, and all about physically being as close together as we possibly can be — is one of my favourite rituals.

Pulling me up from cuddle-position, he peruses me from his lazy and relaxed stance, yanking my head back by my hair every so often to look at my eyes. Each time he smiles and says the same thing.

“That look, that wonderful look in your eyes. I love that look. Are you here, my sexy tabby? Or should I leave a message?”

Then he smiles that killer twinkly blue-eyed smile, and oh-so-gently kisses the top of my forehead, or the tip of my nose — with a gentle grace that belies his evil, flower-weilding nature.

“My gorgeous little perverted kitten.”

I raise my eyes to his, knowing that the look in them says much, much more than that of which I am currently capable. Speechless as I am, I can only be thankful that my eyes do the talking for me, and convey how I feel.

Diana Krall employs a more verbal method of communication, but she gets it. She understands. She knows.

Read Full Post »

This is what I am.

A pervert, undiluted, unabashed and unashamed.

It is what it is.

I realised this yesterday, as I attemtped to refill Purrrrvert’s drinking glass.

The difficulties were that my wrists were cuffed to my ankles. He, of course, regarded the whole scene with an amused smirk on his face, and accepted the drink as his rightful due, before rolling me back on the bed and having his wicked way with me again.

(Oh, poor, poor me.)

I accept who I am, what I am.

I’ve never felt so alive, or so free. Even when restrained; perhaps especially.

Read Full Post »

It’s been a year.

A wonderful, thrilling, exciting, exhilarating, amazing year.

Last week, the Big Bad Cat and I celebrated a year since the day we met and fell in love at first sight. Or, as he called it, “the Loverversary.”

This week, it was the turn of my ass to relive the experience of being flogged red and shiny for the first time by a flogger-weilding feline.

Not forgetting my arms, which celebrated the anniversary of the first time they held him close to me, naked, content, post-orgasmic and purring.

And especially, a celebration in homage to the first time he straddled me across the bed, arms akimbo, secured to the bed posts with leather cuffs and canvas straps, and delighted in causing me to gush over and over again with sheer and ecstatic pleasure.

One whole year of my life, in which I have found myself completed in ways I did not even know I was fragmented.

I am truly blessed.

*************

Removing my restraints, he settles himself into cat nap pose, and indicates that I should join him.

“Come here, my cuddle-slut.”

“Ha! Talk about the cat calling the kitten pink. Look at you — you’re as much of a cuddle-slut as I am!”

“No, no, Pinky le Tab — you are the cuddle-slut. *I* is a cuddle-aholic.”

“No fair, why can’t I be a cuddle-aholic?”

“You can, you just need to pass the ultimate test first.”

“And that test would involve…?”

“The usual. Probing.”

Ulp.

“Er, probing of where, exactly?”

He slides a finger into my ass, and holds it there, knowing how I am aroused by this.

“When all his (*significant finger-wiggle*) fingers join him. Then you can achieve the ranks of cuddle-aholic.”

Eeeep!

I’ll keep you posted.

Read Full Post »

I begin with a quote from that wisest of prophets, Douglas Adams (ז”ל):

“The History of every major Galactic Civilization tends to pass through three distinct and recognizable phases, those of Survival, Inquiry and Sophistication, otherwise known as the How, Why, and Where phases. For instance, the first phase is characterized by the question “How can we eat?” the second by the question “Why do we eat?” and the third by the question “Where shall we have lunch?””

Following on from my expose of the connection between “How I Got Into BDSM” and my fabulous (yet to the untrained eye normal-if-voluptuous) breastage, my aim in this post is to examine the How, Why and Where phases of me — Sapphire the Elegant and Eclectic Slut– in the world of BDSM.

Why am I here? Simple. I’m a pervert. It’s such a shame that the word has such a negative connotation, when in reality what it means is “alternate” or “different”. To pervert the course of justice, for example, is to take it along a very different path from that which it was intended. Thing is, I never thought I was a pervert. I thought i was a weird chick, with fabulous tits (that did nothing for her in any sexual context), and a penchant for strange rape fantasies.

I could never speak about any of this to anyone I knew because if I did they’d think I was certifiable, and send for the men in white coats. I realise now, what with retrospect being 20:20 and all, that the reason I had rape fantasies was because it was the only cultural frame of reference in which I could fit my innermost desires of pain, violence, and restraint in any positive manner.

And since anything even vaguely resembling kinksters, or S&M (as it was known in those days) or anything abnormal or weird-seeming was not something that nice good Jewish girls did or associated themsleves with.

Heh, how wrong can a person be?

How did I get here? Well, to cut a long story short, after an eight-year dearth of sex in any shape of form, my sex drive suddenly re-awoke and I fell in love for the first time, with a kinky transvestite who lived overseas.

And so I was introduced to the world of kinky sex, and I realised that I’d been holding myself back for years, because i was conditioned from childhood to be that nice Jewish girl… i’m still all of the things I was brought up to be — and also a raging pervert. In the nicest possible way.

🙂

That was how I got here, or rather, that was portal through which i started on a voyage of discovery, upon which I am still engaged — each day brings me something new to learn and at which to marvel.

The where question — well, how would you define that? Where am I going? Where indeed, Douglas my old mucker, are we having lunch? (I vote for sushi.) Fuck knows. All I know is that as the journey goes on and the path I follow develops becomes longer, and more exciting, so I become more true to myself.

Long may it continue.

(Probing questions in comments will be answered seriously and at length.)

Read Full Post »

Older Posts »