A new understanding

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.

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Love, and vanilla sex

He stayed where he was in suspended animation, remaining poised above me, and looking down into my eyes.

I turned to suppress a small sob, but he wasn’t having that.

“No, look at me, Tabby. I need to see your eyes, and I need you to see mine.”

Ever the obedient submissive kitten, I did as I was told, even in the knowledge that the look in his sparkling baby-blues would be too much and I would likely dissolve.

Very quietly, he waited until my sobs had subsided, and then bent down gently and kissed me on the nose.

“I love you. I love all of you. I love fucking you. Your cunt, your ass, your mouth, your boobs…. your mind. I love every bit of you. What we have is ours. It’s special. Nothing that goes on anywhere else can ever touch what we have.”

I felt a tear wend its way down the bridge of my nose, and then fall sideways onto the pillow.

He continued.

“Look into my eyes. No, don’t turn away, look into them. What do you see?”

A trifle sheepishly I looked into his eyes again. It’s often said that the eyes are the windows to the soul, but I’ve never been very good at interpreting a “look”. As a trained actor, I’m far more adept at deciphering the strange convulsive ability of the facial muscles than the somewhat nebulous quality of pupil, iris and retina.

However, this time, to my astonishment, I saw love. In his eyes. Almost tangibly radiating out of them — I could see it, feel it, sense it.

“Well? What do you see?”

An all-purpose sniffle, a deep breath and then, very quietly:

“Love.”

“Yes. Know that this is true. That this has been true for… how long is it now? Since we met and fell in love? Know it. Internalize it. Believe in it. You are not a dalliance, you are not tertiary, you are my sub, my Pink Tabby, you are someone I care for deeply, respect enormously and love very, very much. Nothing else has any effect on that. Nothing, ever.”

Through my tears, I felt the sincerity of his words resonate somewhere deep inside me. Trite though it may sound, I felt a peace spreading through me, emanating outwards from where I imagine my soul to live, nestled somewhere snugly behind my heart and ribcage.

He finally lowered himself onto the mattress next to me, and gathered me close to him, stroking my hair until my tears subsided, planting tiny delicate kisses wherever he could find skin that wasn’t obscured by my tangled mane of pulled and disarrayed hair.

As tight as he held me, I held on to him even tighter, wanting to absorb his inner peace and calm into me, wanting to meld with him, wanting the moment to be endless. He held me tighter, winding his fingers through my tangles and pulling my head back, eliciting the requisite squeal of pleasure-pain that it always does, and causing a potential pool to collect down south.

We kissed, a kiss of intensity and love and pain and pleasure and longing and lust and meaning and feeling and deep, deep desire. And then, even more intensely than we had kissed, we fucked. Fucked hard, fucked long, fucked each other until we sweated, panted and cried out in ecstatic joy. A fuck, in other words, to write home about.

And a vanilla one at that.

Post-orgasmically, I roused myself from our tangled stupor to laughingly note this to him.

“We just had vanilla sex! That’s hilarious!”

He cackled in his most evil, rotten, flower-wielding feline manner.

“Not exactly vanilla, dear. There was kink.”

“If you say so, darling.”

“There was, definitely. And as you well know, once you kink you can never go bink.”

“Well, I’d hate to go bink at any rate.”

“Zigackly.”

There you have it, people. Once you kink, you can never go bink. In case that was your dread fear in life. 😎

(I love you, evil, rotten cat. <3)

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The Look

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.

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Why, How and Where?

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.)

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Superior Support Required

The Girls are as much a part of me as any other, but since they protrude somewhat more that certain other areas, they are more distinct and noticeable.

Well, they do protrude from my body rather, it isn’t exactly easy to miss them. 🙂

Not that I give people much opportunity to miss them. In real life, they’re out there, real and spectacular. In virtual life, they’re out there on camera — check out my profile on Fetlife, if you don’t believe me. They’re the stars of the show. They even make the occasional appearance on my little corner of the Fetlife blogosphere.

Heh.

What I realised today, in conversation with a friend and fellow pervert, was that it was the Girls who got me into BDSM. No, seriously.

I shall explain for you, gentle reader — from your puzzled look and audible “Uh, wha…?” I can tell that I have somewhat puzzled you, Fear not, all will be revealed.

I lost my virginity — the original one — at age 21. Prior to that I had been almost-sexually active since I was 16 — and prior to that there had been a lot of snogging but not much else. (This is what happens when you grow up a nice Jewish girl.)

However, there was always boob-feelage. The girls, in all their incarnations and all their bra types and sizes (I went through a phase of wearing sports bras for years — not the cool tops I wear now when i’m pyjama-ing it at home, but actual white bras, with little crossed tennis rackets in the middle-y area, instead of the traditional bow — they were comfortable to the point of being able to sleep in them, but they made me look awful) have always attracted attention, even when they weren’t dressed to their best advantage.

But then, that’s what boobs do.

I’ve watched men, with whom I was walking, or drinking coffee, literally do a 180 degree headspin and snap-back at an oversized pair of hooters walking by. It never bothered me, in fact it was something of a relief that for once it wasn’t my pair that was magnetizing stares all around. I remember one time laughing hilariously, when it took a while for the men in question to realise that they’d just witnessed a pair of falsies on a very attractive transitional transgender (it may have been a crossdresser, I don’t know, but he was gorgeous and had a stunning pair of titties, with a pants-bulge that did everything but complement them).

Thing was, it never did anything for me. Feeling up the girls, I mean. Licking them. Kissing them. Nothing, nada, zip, zilch.

And then one hot and sweaty occasion, someone grasped a nipple between their thumb and forefinger, and squeezed — and I nearly hit the ceiling with ecstasy.

And the rest, as they say, is history. 😎

I guess I owe the Girls a lot. More than just their own blog post. Maybe I should gold-plate them, or make images of them in plaster of paris… what do you think? Suggestions and comments in the comments area, please.

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Sound of Silence

UPDATE: Fleshbotted by the lovely AAG… happy holidays to you too, lovey.

The wail that bursts forth from me at the point of complete surrender is almost primordial in its nature.

Orgasm was not always a noisy experience for me. Borne of a combination of immaturity, and having my sexual learning curve experienced under mostly dormitory conditions, silence was a skill I learned to equate with reaching my orgasmic apex.

Not any more.

It used to be all about pleasure. My pleasure. Regardless of how much I enjoyed pleasuring a guy — and I really do take great pride in making someone else happy — my orgasm was about me achieving those pinnacles of wailing ecstasy.

This was before I discovered my G-spot, before I knew of female ejaculation, and loooooong before I knew what it was like to experience such a thing — and even longer before I knew what BDSM really was.

My first orgasm — my first real, hit-that-spot, “holy FUCK what was that?” moment, was with a boy from the States who I met on kibbutz. Until then, masturbation had been a comfort thing for me. This guy hit the spot, and had me shuddering silently into his shoulder, amazed that what had up until now been a passable way to spend a quiet afternoon could have such incredibly cataclysmic results.

In a good way.

But my reaction, while real, and quite noticeable to said boy, was silent. Like I said, dormitory life had a strong influence on the ease with which I allowed myself to express myself vocally. Or lack thereof.

Fast forward to my first fisting. Also my first ejaculation — well, the first that emanated from within me, as opposed to being sprayed in me, up me or over me. My verbal expression was less muted, but still more of an occasional grunt or cry.

Fast forward (again) to today.

Orgasms — despite the ritual fetish of denial that accompanies them — are abundant, lavish and — well, put it this way. there’s not a dry eye in the house. Or a dry anything, come to that.

But the vocal appreciation of same is on a whole new level.

The wails that burst forth from me come from a place that could be described by archeologists as newly discovered. Hitherto I had been completely unaware of the depth of emotion within me that was accessible.

The sounds I make now are an abandonment of consciousness, a wail directly from my soul. They seem to last forever, although of course they don’t — but an untold and unfathomable length of wailed joyous expression goes by before i am silent again, save huge, shuddering gasps of air that reinflate my lungs.

It’s a whole new level of ecstasy. A new experience on every level. I think it’s as much about with whom I experience this pleasure as the nature of the experience itself. The pleasure that the achievment of my orgasm gives the the one who permits me, encourages me and draws it forth from me, is palpable, fundamental and almost tangible in its nature.

Which makes the whole experience a hundred times better.

A thousand, even.

🙂

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