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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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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