*Such* a pervert

I am *such* a pervert. You wouldn’t believe it. I certainly can’t.

It just never seems to properly sink in.

No matter what I do, or what I write — not just here but on Twitter, Fetlife, and various local sites, no matter where or what I write or discuss, the reality of the depth to which my various kinks, fetishes and perversions sink simply does not ever fully register.

It’s utterly bizarre.

Even my latest email from the Big Bad Cat which begins “Hello, my dear Pervert!” doesn’t help it sink in.

And then we meet. He takes me in his arms, and kisses me passionately, and then tweaks my nipple eliciting a high-pitched squeal from me, causing my knees to buckle, and my cunt to moisten.

And I say it. Every time, the same phrase.

“Dear lord, I am *such* a pervert.”

I think Purrrrvert sees it as some kind of a challenge, as if I were sitting there on the bed, nonchalantly tossing gauntlets in his direction.

He raises a hand and lands a plump thwack on my backside. I absorb the blow, squeaking with pleasure-pain. Though I was brought up to wish an end to pain when it happens, the knee-jerk reaction that flies impossibly through my head is always “Thank you, Sir. May I have another?”

I love how it feels. The sensation of the thudding palm against my softly reverberating ass. It always makes me shiver with delight and then angle myself slightly forward, to be able to absorb another.

When he reaches into his big black bag of toys and pervertibles and withdraws the little mesh bag of kitchen utensils, I know I’m in for some fun. The fish slice is a bastard. The ladle is a fucker. The stainless steel egg-whisk is a total bastard fucker. The spatulas — one red and flat and slappy, the other more aesthetically pleasing, purple and ergonomically designed, with a twin who lives in my kitchen — but I use it *as* a spatula, earning me the nickname of “true pervert” — both have ways to cause me to groan, gasp and even gush with sheer pleasure.

How do I reconcile the character image of the nice Jewish girl I was brought up to be, and the fact that kitchen hardware makes me leak cunt-juice all over the sofa? Philosophically, it’s quite a conundrum. I mean, I’m on the parents’ committee of my kid’s class, for fuck’s sake. I sit in meetings, discussing the end-of-year event, and whether we should have a barbecue or go to the beach, offering sage and sound advice about the safety of our children and how best to get the other parents to produce food marginally more exciting than a plate of devilled eggs, and other such deeply significant banalities — and deep inside I silently wonder whether anyone would notice if I had a crafty wank in the guest bathroom, and whether, if  I pinched my own nipple hard enough to make myself scream, I could resist the temptation to do so, and remain silent.

He ties me up, and I zoom so fast into subspace it’s a wonder I haven’t been diagnosed with whiplash. Last week, as previously documented, I allowed him to do a demo on me of breast bondage — after which my feet did not touch the ground for over four days straight.

This is not the reaction of a normal person, is it? Mind you, who the fuck ever wanted to be normal?

My constant refrain, when he arouses me with a word, an act or a specific command, is “I am *such* a pervert!” It’s very true… and I freely admit that I am proud to be so. It’s difficult to explain to people in the vanilla world — in an upcoming trip to my home town, i will have to explain to my sexually-liberated-but-very-vanilla-with-it BFF.

That’ll be an experience.

It is by allowing my inner pervert to rise up and embrace my outer, seemingly well-behaved, conformist, afraid of authority shell of a self who floated through eight years of control-freakism, that I become the real me and experience real life. I value that beyond belief, and now that I’ve discovered what it is to really live, I wouldn’t give it up for the world.

Normal? Maybe.

Necessary? You bet your ass.

Perverted? Totally.

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Attention slut in subspace

(That title sounds like a punctuation challenge — something like “eats, shoots and leaves” — don’t you think, gentle reader?)

Ahem.

Yesterday I attended my first play party.

Yes, my first. Forty fucking years old and while unarguably more than adequately experienced in the delights and possibilities of the varied and more notably BDSM-oriented ways of the bedroom, I’d never done it elsewhere.

I mean, I have been to a munch or two, and have even organised a couple. I went to an informal demonstration meeting where I saw some brave girl be set on fire by a certain mean and rotten feline.* 🙂

But never a play party.

I mean, this was *officially* a birthday party. My friend N organised a surprise 40th birthday party for her master. We became friends online, N and I, and only met in person recently, and I’d not seen her with her guy. And how sweet it was to do so — the love they have for each other is mutual and almost tangible in its intensity. It was a wonderful sight to behold, and i felt honoured to share the event with them.

There was, of course, another dimension to all this.

N had asked Purrrrvert if he would help break the ice a bit. Parties have this habit of being people standing around in clumps, mournfully nursing a solitary beer while discussing something mundane with the same people with whom they always stand. Purrrrvert, being the highly scene-experienced evil mean and rotten cat that he is, offered N a demo to get the party going. On me. Breast bondage. Le swoon!

Me and my boobs go back a long way. Almost as far as I can hoist them over my shoulder, in fact — heh. I’m big — between 38-40 DD/E. (Stop swooning, breast lovers, there’s more. And no, I am not posting pictures.) But from a sexual perspective, beyond having the ability to stop a person in their tracks and leave them drooling and wild-eyed, they never did anything for me. Gentle caresses, loving kisses — meh. Until someone pinched my nipple, and I leapt four feet into the air in ecstasy.

It was my first official milestone on the long road to recognition that — yes, I am a pervert. 😎

Back to the point. I stood in front of a bunch of people — they all lounged around on sofas and easy chairs, while i stood in the spot directly beneath the air conditioner (because I am a Pink Tabby and I can), and Purrrrvert wound a gloriously blue colored rope around, over and under the girls — and I incrementally zoomed higher and higher into sub-space.

I didn’t lose consciousness, or even self-consciousness — being an attention whore (AKA former Drama student, currentsinger, drama/comedy writer and director), willingly standing up in public and being looked at by people is just one of my raisons  d’etre. My sluttishness does extend to matters beyond the carnal; intelligence and intellectuality get me wet, for example, and humour makes me swoon. But yeah, I’m an attention slut. Hell yeah.

However, the attention to my half-naked person raised some initial self-conscious feelings even with me, and I found myself staring at a fixed point on the ceiling, not quite able to look my audience members in the eye(s). But I was smiling my head off, laughing with various people watching, and talking to N, who was over in the corner with her beloved master. He  was flogging her mercilessly with a fabulous new flogger she’d had made for him as a birthday present — it was adorable to watch the dynamic of  “Ow! Shit! That fucking hurt! OK, do it to me again”, (or to put it in cinematic terms, “Thank you Sir, may I have another?”) that went on between them.

But I was definitely in space. In fact, with each twist and kink in the rope, I soared higher and higher. He wound a bikini-like pattern around me, and it felt… fantastic. I love how he binds me — and he loves doing so. It’s a match made in heaven.

And when I’m with him, I always  feel safe and secure and loved and adored. This was no exception — I was undergoing bondage, in the company of friends, and I was very, very happy. Gradually the self-consciousness faded, and I became acutely aware of how natural I felt to be standing there, with this blue karada bikini around my chestage, laughing and talking with people.

Once he was done, and i’d elicited some enthusiastic applause for the paw-work of the Purrrrvert, an older woman came up to us, and greeted Purrrrvert enthusiastically — way back when, he had taught her certain bondage skills, and she wanted to show him how she’d improved. Purrrrvert turned to me.

“Would you be OK if someone else had a go at binding you? She wants to show me a technique she perfected — but only if it’s OK with you, dear.”

I agreed happily.  Actually, I was so ecstatic at that point that I’d quite possibly have agreed to being branded with a fire-iron at that point — but that’s the joy of Purrrrvert and a big part of why I love him so deeply. He wouldn’t let anything bad happen to me, ever. Had someone advanced on me with a big fire-branding iron shaped like a penguin, knowing my penchant for the waddling little Antarctic dwellers, Purrrvert would have been there to stop me making an addle-brained decision.

She partially unwound me, and then did this thing where she individually wrapped each boob with a length of rope, and then yanked them hard using the rope as a pulley mechanism, causing the girls to be pulled round, taut and closer together. A bit like a rope equivalent of the Wonderbra.

But that did it for me. I took off — mentally — and as a result am only dimly aware of the memory of Purrrrvert unwinding me, turning me round and around like a chicken on a spit,  then gently helping me replace my blouse over my unfettered cleavage, and sitting me down in a warm embrace, where I stayed, snuggled into his shoulder until my senses were somewhat restored to normal.

It was amazing. The whole experience. I’ve never felt so alive… so myself.

I love you, angel. Thank you so much.

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

*Fireplay is a risk accepted consensual kink, but should never be performed recklessly or without due regard to safety, sanity and — if it needs to even be said — consent. The point of that demo was to show how fireplay should be done, and what to consider, what instruments and material to use, and how to avoid pain, scarring and — heaven forbid — 1st, 2nd or 3rd degree burns, and it was very informative. (Catch me doing that — as if!)

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Different

It was different the second time.

The first time had been —  although I only really comprehended so in retrospect — nerve-wracking.

Would we be a “fit”? Would we be compatible?

Would he like my body? Would I like his?

Would it be like it was with PreviousDom, where i was restricted to the point of not daring to open my mouth except when presented with an upstanding dick to suck? (Incorrectly believing that this was “the one twue way” to submit.)

It had been none of the above, and all my fears had been proved groundless. The experience the first time had been absolutely incredible — and I intend no hyperbole here. I was calm, reassured, and in no way wracked with nerves — on the contrary; rather excited and anticipating the endless possibilities of new experience that lay ahead.

Taking care not to harm a still-swollen cheek after a painful tooth extraction a day or so ago, i kissed him hello carefully. What we have is still very new, but not so new that the shine hasn’t rubbed off a little (in the nicest possible way), and I can sense a certain warm familiarity about the way his lips meet mine — a familiarity that pleases me and gives me a big old warm and fuzzy.

That, in and of itself, was different.

We began the same way as last time, with him spreading out the truly comprehensive collection of toys, ticklers, teasers and floggers  that he owns — and Purrrrvert is a man who believes in pervertibles to an unbelievable extent. He told me that once I’d seen and experienced his collection, I’d never be able to go shopping for anything else again without looking through a BDSM filter at just about every item on the shelf.

(Except, perhaps, condoms. Heh.)

I chose what toys I fancied playing with, taking care not to err on the side of big-girly-wussiness and caution, as I had done previously, and adding to my usual choices of skin-sensation fun-and furry things, several floggers, some rubber and silk binding wires, the blindfold, and bondage (aka hiking) rope. And a vibrating smurf. (Swear to god.)

Then the session began.

He stood me in front of him, and made it clear that he was in charge by removing my clothing and handling my body, piece by piece. Once I was stood before him, naked and trembling with excitement, he bound each breast individually, and began playing with them.

Having never experienced breast-binding before, i was astounded to learn that it heightened the sensations in my boobs more than ever, and the nipple-to-clit hotline along which an electric current usually travels, had suddenly become even more sensitive – resulting in an awareness of my cunt being awash as soon as he pulled me towards him by the tippy-tip of my nipple.

It hu-u-u-rt… but it felt so good.

I brought my eyes level with his — i know how much he loves to look deep into my eyes.

“I’m wet. In fact, I’m soaking.”

His baby-blues twinkled a faux nonchalance at me.

“I’ll check in a minute” he said, almost too dismissively.

I squirmed as I stood there in front of him, his hands groping, stroking and palpating bits of me — none of it reducing the wetness; on the contrary, all of it contributing to yet more gushage.

Suddenly i wanted nothing more than to have him touch me, stroke me, make me come. And he knew, oh how he knew! I could tell, from how slowly he was taking things. He had no need to hurry. This was being done on his timescale, not mine.

Exquisite agony.

“Will you undress me, please?”

Mutely, I did as I was told. Shirt, shoes, socks, pants and underwear. I knelt before him naked, and he took me firmly by the hair.

“I like having you kneeling in front of me,” he smiled, and kissed me again.

(The wetness factor upped itself threefold. I felt like a classic Bon Jovi album.)

He leaned forward and unbound my breasts, only to pull out a long, orange hiking rope, and begin to truss me like a chicken.

“Did you bring your camera with you?” I asked him, as I turned this way and that, surveying myself critically in the mirror.

“No, not today — why?”

“This looks hot. My tits look fabulous. The girls have never been this well dressed. I want to commemorate the occasion.”

“Next time, dear. OK?”

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

Later, after he had indeed discovered how utterly awash with arousal I was, and a fisting that brought tears of joy to my eyes with the intensity of the orgasm (although strangely no gush this time… anyone got any idea why?), he bade me snuggle into him, while he held me and stroked every bit of me he could reach.

“Relax, Kitten. You’re always so busy — I want you to relax and be calm and still.”

“But … I’m not good at being passive… and I just want to make you happy… and –”

“That’s fine, but let me pamper you. You’ll have your turn later, I promise.”

So, once again, I did as I was told, although he relented and allowed me to gently stroke his chest and torso. I wasn’t surprised that he did, I believe he likes to be stroked as much as he likes to stroke.

And as I lay there, I reflected on my good fortune. I’d fallen into BDSM, as an experiment, and it had led me to meet this wonderful person who dominated me as much as i wanted or needed, and genuinely cared for me also. And indulged me, and liked talking to me, and discussing stuff with me, and understood me and all my quirky foibles, and contradictions, and all of the other things that define me as me — good and bad.

I’d not only found a wonderful lover, I’d found a friend. A really good friend. A rarity in any walk of life, but especially within the confines of BDSM to find one with whom each others pet perves click a happy fit, and you also get on like a house on fire.

I’m so lucky. I can’t wait until next time.

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