Floggerversary

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.

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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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Antici….. pation

I see him today.

The time between meetings seems to drag and fly by alternately — depending on my mood, the quantity of work I have to do, and how the world immediately around me is spinning at any particular moment.

I try to update here with the sparkles of joy that emanate from me after we meet, but I am sometimes somewhat tardy. Know, however, that I leave his embrace only to walk on air. Sub-space has nothing on how I feel. There are not enough words of a sufficient calibre to describe it — and I speak as one to whom words are bread and meat, blood and air, sustenance and breath.

The excitement of the build-up begins to increase exponentially around noon. Four hours until… three hours until… Idly i flip through the pages on the site looking for something to catch my attention and refocus myself. I work listlessly, or on occasion frantically — determined to leave the rest of my life nehind me so that my whole being is focused on him, on he and I… on us.

From the moment the door closes, and it is just us in the room, I’m in a different place altogether. Despite my external, bouncy and excited demeanour, I am solemn and focused on the inside. It’s time for that thing, that ritual ceremony to happen.

I take this ritual very seriously. It heralds the start of every session, and for me, it’s like passing through a mental gateway. I remove my clothing, and then kneel before him, naked and shyly smiling. He fastens my collar around my neck, and holds me close to him, breathing in my smell as I breathe in his. When we are apart, he misses me too, a lot. I am constantly gratified and touched by how he never fails to demonstrate this to me, physically, vocally and mentally. He enquires how I am, and I know that he means now, this second, with my every sense engulfed in the very essence of him, knowing how different it is from the day-to-day, and delighting in my enjoyment of my submission.

And this is how it starts, and how this piece ends.

I quote the late great Jim Morrison:

“Ladies and gentlemen, the ceremony is about to begin.”

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Give me one

“Give me one,” he says to me.

I am lying spread across the bed, arms and legs secured akimbo, a warm muffler as a blindfold across my eyes. 

He is half-sitting and half-lying on and over me, stroking my skin, pinching me and flicking me, mini-slapping me with various pervertible slappy devices (beer mat, bookmark, bouncy rubber cat toy) to the sound of me yelping in pain and then sighing with ecstasy alternately.

Every so often he leans over me, his face so close to mine i can sense the warmth of him. I lift my head, hoping to catch his lips with mine in a warm and passionate kiss — and every so often he indulges me. But not always. This is, after all, his game. He makes the rules.

And how I love how he does so.

He pinches my clit, until i scream in ecstatic agony — and give him my orgasm, right into his palm.

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

“Give me one,” he demands from me.

I’m free-standing, the requirement is that i stand upright and allow him to toy with me as he pleases.

But of course. Could it ever be any other way? 😎

There are the basic assumptive roles into which we naturally and easily slide — catalyzed by our opening ceremony, which sets the scene very effectively for who and what we are when we are together. This is a role-play of sorts, but one that goes beyond any role-play of teacher and naughty schoolgirl, or of adult male returning to her home the young, naive and inexperienced babysitter.

His hand contracts, and his  fingers slide further inside me. I struggle to remain upright, eventually grasping onto the bookcase frame nearby as the alternative is to allow my knees to buckle. I look at him, my eyes pleading for clemency, and his acquiescent nod acknowledges the reality of the situation, and permits my frame-graspage.

I lose control, and come, screaming my ecstasy, and gushing what feels like gallons of come down my leg and onto the rug. And collapse into his warm embrace.

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

I love how he demands that I *give* him my orgasm. I give him my submission, and I give him my love — and I do so with all my heart, love, trust, warmth and being. But give him my orgasm? What? Isn’t it supposed to be the other way around? That he gives me one?

Orgasms are usually perceived as something that we take from our partners. Furthermore, there is no requirement for love or even any feeling that transcends beyond base animal attraction and lust in order to achieve that particular brand of ecstasy. 

And yet, here he is, and he turns it on his head for me. “Give me your orgasm.” He sees it as a gift to him, and I find this fascinating, unusual and absolutely amazing.

To him, the fact that i experience the overwhelming sweep of bliss that streams through me like a light-sabre, then shudder as if undergoing (a very delightful form of)  electro-therapy and then (eventually) collapse against him, limp and sated, breathless and panting, is all evidence that I have given him a gift? So much the better.

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

Later, he presents me with a healthy and highly inviting erection — a result of some dedicated and willing attention from my mouth and tongue — and demands that I clamber astride it. He didn’t have to demand. I’d have done it anyway. However, he is in control, therefore the instruction must come from him.

It’s how we like doing That Thing It Is That We Do.

Agreeably, I situate myself above him and slide him into me. He grasps my arms, dictating my every move, moving me up and down faster and faster, hitting my G-spot as he himself drifts off before my eyes onto a cloud of ecstatic joy. He looks into my eyes, and whispers to me.

“I love how your cunt feels around me.”

I nod, I smile my special smile at him, my eyes never leaving his.

“I’m going to take mine now.”

“I give it to you with all my heart, my mind, my soul and my cunt.”

“I love you, my kitten.”

“I love you, Don Gato.” 

He comes, his all-but-silent “Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh…!” echoing around the room, belying its near-silence.

I love being with him, I love fucking him, I love him fucking me, I love how he tells me how he loves my cunt and how it feels to be inside it, I love how he touches me when i sit at his feet, I love the way his skin feels on mine…

I will always give him whatever he wishes. Orgasms and otherwise.

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Sugasm 169 — Editor’s Choice!

The best of this week’s blogs by the bloggers who blog them. Highlighting the top 3 posts as chosen by Sugasm participants — and the Editor’s Choice which this week is “Belonging” — my piece about the connection of BDSM and love that I have to Purrrrvert. Thanks, Editor — we’re both very touched that you saw fit to choose this piece, as it is perhaps the most personal piece I’ve ever submitted to Sugasm.

Want in Sugasm #170? Submit a link to your best post of the week using this form. Participants, repost the link list within a week and you’re all set.

This Week’s Picks
Clothespin Communion
“Surrender to the sensation.”

Remembering the Pain
“And it really was that bad.”

Short And Sweet
“Why don’t you turn over”

Sugasm Editor
Fetish Fridays: Financial Submission

Editor’s Choice
Belonging

Thoughts on Sex and Relationships
Absence
Evey Can Haz?
The Ghost of Sex Toys Past (Part One of Three)
“Boy, Girl, or In-between?” Princess Frida’s Fabulous Talk, and My Thoughts
“Work” Confession #297

NSFW Pics, Videos & Audio
Busty beauty Jenny McClain
Flash Spanking Videos
Leighton Meester Sex Tape
Pearls
Thrashed on their bared buttocks
Waiting for Tonight

Sex Humor
Fat Sex and Why It’s Good

BDSM & Fetish
Don’t Have Mercy on Me, Baby
Formalities, and, on second thought, greetings
The Going Away Present
He gave them pain like balm, and they begged him for it
High School Bully Part 3
Home Alone?
Mollena Williams added to 100 Divas
A Night In Bondage
Under instruction
The war of the sexes

Sex Poetry
At the movies….

News, Reviews & Interviews
The Independent lists “the ten best sex toys.” I fly into a rage.
Take Me Out to the Sapphic Sex Romp
Vibratex Pandora
The Wily Old Crocodile: An Interview with Eosuchus

Sex Advice
Anal Sex for Beginners
New At Sex Is Magazine: Foods That Enhance Your Sex Drive
Q&A with Dr.Ruthie – Asking for Better Sex
Starting At The Bottom: An Intro to Anal Play, Part 2

Erotic Writing & Experiences
Amber gives me a blowjob..in person!
From Behind
Its Morning…(The Last Time)
Just fucking.
A Matter of Taste
May i feel said he
New Man at the Lesbos Palace
The Problem with Thongs
The Raise
Randy: the new big cock
Stranger Fuck & Plough
Whore, Adulteress, Sinner
You can leave your hat on

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How do I feel?

I have written before of the opening ceremony that begins our time together.  He always asks me how I’m feeling, and I usually say “I’m fine,” or “Very happy to be here,” but it always assails me how mediocre my answer is, at best, and inadequate in the extreme, at worst.

Yesterday, in a burst of combined pre-session inspiration, emotion and an unexpected pocket of free time, I wrote a letter to Purrrrvert, and printed it out. At that crucial moment, when he asked me that customary question, I reached behind me for the folded piece of paper, and handed it to him.

He has told me that he fell in love with me initially because of my words. He calls me his Cunning Linguist (among other creative and adorable terms of endearment), and he loves when I write for him. But nothing prepared me for the clear and honest reaction that streamed between us as our eyes met, once he raised them from reading.

The eyes are the windows to the soul. I saw straight into his, and he into mine.

And I cried, for sheer joy.

When I am with you, you always ask me how I feel.

How I feel to be with you?

How do I find the words to cage the butterflies of feeling that well up inside me at the thought of being with you?

How much more so their siblings, glitter-coating me when no longer is it a matter of thought, but a warm and soft reality?

An accurate description is never something I can accomplish as I stand before you – naked both in body and soul. This is the time when I am focused only on being. The words come later.

Now is later. Now I describe.

I feel transported from the daily grind to an island of oblivion. Population: 2.

1. Purrrrvert

2. Pink Tabby.

No one else lives here; in fact none but us exist. This is our world.

So how do I feel?

There is no one emotion to encompasses the bubble of joy that encases me. It’s so much more than “happy”. I feel:

Loved.

Cherished.

Controlled.

Respected.

Esteemed

Dear.

Treasured.

Valued.

Wanted.

Owned.

Yours.

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Never too much

Update: Fleshbotted once again by the lovely and super-sexy Always Aroused Girl. Thank you so much!

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

It had been touch and go whether we’d meet. A combination of industrial work issues raising their ugly heads, and allergies affecting the delicate sinuses of a particular evil, mean and rotten cat, had conspired to stop us from meeting.

However, meet we did. Conspire away, corrupt industry and evil dust. You’ll never take me alive!

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

It occurred to me, at one point, that I was losing my grip on reality. Which is fine in the context of a session. Slipping into subspace is, while not exactly de rigeur, certainly a desired effect. Purrrrvert loves watching me lose my usually demure and mature attitude as I dissolve into a small cuddly heap of ecstatically sighing happy kitty.

And i love having him watch as I do.

I remember lying on my front, facing away from him, as he relentlessly thrust his hand into me. Managing to hit both my G-spot and my clit simultaneously, I alternately sighed, moaned, yowled and screamed as he coaxed orgasm after orgasm out of me. It almost felt as though it was too much, but then as that thought began to flit across my mind, another peak hit. I shuddered to the most earth shattering climax yet, and wondered incredulously at myself. 

How could it ever be too much?

“Turn yourself around, Tabby le Pink. Come and lie next to me.”

“Are you going to move your fist from inside me?”

“No.”

Which meant that turning around suddenly required a great deal of twisting and unsually balletic movements. I pride myself on my ability to execute the occasional vertical less-than-graceless dance movement, regardless of how I may appear as I perform it. But horizontally, all bets are off.

But I did it. He has that kind of effect on me.

He continued to tease and probe me incessantly to my sheer delight, except now he was looking into my eyes. Then he leaned forward and kissed me — tenderly at first, soft and sweet, then blossoming into levels of passion and excitement that excited me yet further.

How had I even considered thinking that it was too much? What was wrong with me?

Breaking from the kiss, he stroked my hair off my face as he gazed down at me lovingly.

“You look so lovely.”

I blushed. He continued.

“I love being with you. I love fisting you, I love fucking you. I love you, my Pink Tabby.”

I sighed happily, and reached up to kiss him again. He accepted the gesture lovingly. Appreciatively. I love kissing him. I love fucking him. I love everything about being with him, whether physically, spiritually or mentally.

I sighed.

“I love you too. So very much.” And he held me tightly.

A couple of nights later, I had an epiphany. I realised that I was being a fool to myself to focus on the negative things in life, when i had this wonderful, positive thing going on for me.

Too much indeed. Who was I kidding?

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Belonging

My dom does not call me bitch, nor slut nor cunt, nor whore.

The collar that I put on when I’m with him — or more accurately, that he puts on me — is part of the beauty of our connection. I am not his bitch — I am his.

When he holds the leash, it is indeed a sense of “belonging”, but it works in both directions.

I belong to him as much as he belongs to me — the leash is that which binds us.

Yes, we each have our own role to play in this equation, and yes, our roles are clearly defined — my role is completely different to his.

But the equality and weight of the two parts to be played are exactly the same — which is what makes the “us” of what we have work so well.

The collar and leash are merely one part of the circle that we form. The circle also consists of our hands, and our hearts — no beginning, no end, simple and complete.

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Transatlantic telepathy

He’s gone away, on holiday.

Gone to learn new rope tricks, and then come home and try them all out on me.

Gone to buy me something very personal and special that we chose together before he left. (He plans things, none of the last-minute rush for him.)

Gone to rest and relax from all the crazy of late.

And I? I wish him the most wonderful, relaxing, enjoyable time away. I genuinely hope he and Sub1 have a great time.

He promised he would be in touch as soon as he landed, and he was, in his way. I already knew he was safe, i could feel it. The phone call confirmed it.

Right now, the warm and fuzzy around my heart means I know he’s having fun. This both  calms and delights me concurrently.

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

I slept earlier, and an image of him straddling me, floated before my eyes.

“Again?” I’d asked him, as he secured my wrists to each side of the bed. “That’s the third time in as many hours that you’ve wanted to fuck me.”

He said nothing, merely sniggering in his cattish way, and smirking at me out of the corner of his eye.

“I’m not complaining,” I reassured him.

“I should hope not. Now, instead of all that talking, how about 25 words for me?”

“Holy shit. Now? Goddamn rotten, evil, mean feline.”

“Why, thank you, my dear.”

While considering the 25 words, I realised that he had upended the bottle of lube and was about to trickle it on me.

“No! It’s cold, it’ll be cold!” I squealed.

My protests counted for nothing, as he dribbled the lube over the girls (as he likes to refer to the expansive chest area with which I have been blessed). He then bent to kiss me, before starting to fuck the girls hard and fast.

His legs straddled me, squeezing me between his thighs. If ever there were an occasion where I felt owned, and restrained, contained and sublimated — this was it.

His cock glided smoothly between my breasts, hitting me on the chin every so often, as he reached forward to tug at my hair, never losing eye contact with me for a second.

It’s part of that natural connection we have — i can look in his eyes and read what he’s about to say, and I’ve not been wrong yet.

Suddenly he tensed. And came. All over my face and hair, on my lips, cheeks and eyelids.

And then bent to kiss me.

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

It was this image with which I awoke.

Rawrrrrrrr.

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Three words, in fifty

I twist myself from snuggle pose, (lying curled up into the crook of his arm, his fingers in my hair), to resting my head on his chest.

“I’m trying to say I love you with my eyes.”

“Oh, say it out loud instead.”

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

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