#blindfolds
New website post: ‘Joy Be The Consequence’
It’s audience participation time! Quite a few years ago (it’s still slightly unsettling to be in a position to say that with a straight face), I posted a poll consisting of five photographs, and asked readers to choose the image they wanted to be the inspiration for a new piece of erotica. ‘Concessions’, and the winning image that inspired that particular tale, can both be found right here. Given…
She waited to hear his step and feel his touch; each moment without him stretched out before her like an eternity.
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She waited to hear his step and feel his touch; each moment without him stretched out before her like an eternity.
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Relax…we could be here for some time
i can imagine @milkyandthegentlemen enjoying a glass of red wine and keeping a boy under Her feet like this while She checks Her email and internet forums to see how the other boys elsewhere are doing without Her. Being a slave to one Mistress is pretty easy. Being a Mistress to several slaves scattered about the country is a bit more complicated. She’s selfless like that.
So true. Damn, I’m a wonderful human being.
Also, spot on about the red wine. Though I have been known to enjoy some good gin and tonic, especially with a splash or rose grenadine. And of course I love The Romantic’s rum-filled jungle juice. Because as with men, variety is the spice of life with beverages.
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There will be some kissing in My near future. And I like the idea of blindfolding the recipient to help him focus. And by “him” of course, I’m talking multiple men, one at a time. Because anything worth doing is worth doing with a bunch of different lovers, don’t you agree?
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Technically they’re still clothed :U
I’m not even ashamed that it’s porn because for once in my life I was able to draw a round ass.
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She blamed her dreams, although of course they were the ones pointing the finger. And those digits were firmly aimed in her direction.
But it was how she found out, and she enlisted the blame at the cause, rather than the cause of the cause. She didn’t think about her subconscious, and how it was producing these ideas, conjuring them out of the aether of sleep and wrapping them around her limbs, her eyes, tying her down and sending electric thrills between her legs. It wasn’t her dreams that created that shadowy, vague, desperately masculine figure towering over her. They were just the conduit.
Without them, though, she may have remained blissfully unaware. There was a part of her, a very real, solid, angry part, that wished that she’d had dreamless nights, just a void between bouts of consciousness. It wasn’t quite the majority, but it was close. Oh to be normal, to want normal things from normal people.
Not her. She liked to be tied up. She liked to have control wrested from her. She liked to feel the thrill of being called a slut, a cunt, a whore. She liked to be dressed up just so she could be dressed down. Each kink a different dream, every one surreal, confusing, and embarrassingly exciting. She resented every one, even as she ploughed her hand between her legs at the thought of them.
The problem was, as vivid, powerful and depraved as her dreams were, she wouldn’t truly understand what she was until one of them came true. Until she made them come true. But it was only a matter of time.
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No matter the intention, the blindfold anonymizes. It strips away your identity like so many clothes torn off your back, and you’re left with a body and a mouth, and not much else. Not if you don’t want it. If you want to put aside personality and ego for a moment, and just enjoy the physicality of it all.
I imagine it might be liberating, to be released from all that makes you you, just for a little while. To lose the house, the mortgage, that family, the friends, the problems, the fact that you haven’t learned Cello yet, even though you’ve wanted to for years. The weighing pressure of not having taken a holiday in at least two years. Just… a body. That’s all you get to be, for that little while. You get to soar above it, the opposite of a near-death experience.
You don’t hover above the body. The rest of you does, your psyche. But you get to stay with it, enjoy the things that are done, the degradation, the objectification, all while the rest of you floats a few feet away, watching it all take place. It’s a form of regression, controlled and consensual, and that’s no bad thing. Sometimes we need a break from all that. A vacation from yourself, at the end of a leash, eyes closed, blinded, and nothing but a thick dick against your lips.
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The instant the cloth falls around your eyes and everything goes dark, it’s easy to start focusing on what you have left, what you can feel, touch, smell, hear. How all your other senses seem to flare into life, as if they’ve only been coasting on the eye’s hard work. Suddenly everything takes on a slightly different hue, and you’re relearning how everything interacts with you. It’s a thrill, to be sure.
But it’s worth remembering what you’ve lost, and what that loss really means for you. The knowledge that you’re in a room, that there are four walls and a roof, is gone, leaving you in a place that’s so very… immediate. Everything you know, everything you can know, is right here, where you can smell it, or touch it. There’s the exception of sound, but even that can do funny things without visual backup. A voice that should sound a foot away might seem right next to your eardrum, or a dozen metres away. You can’t check, and so your mind runs rampant.
You could see, and now you are blind. It’s the change that I’m interested in, and how it alters how you think, how you react. Because I’m only ever after your thoughts, your reactions.
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I am in love with the sounds that spill from eager lips. The cries, the groans, and the moans. The gasps, the sighs, the audible glisten when your tongue slips over your lips. The sound of a minuscule bubble breaking as you open your mouth, cracking the air with a hairline fracture. The clatter of your teeth against a ball gag.
You may ask, then, with your eager hand thrust towards the ceiling, desperate anxiety on your face, why, then, I enjoy the gags so much, why I would muffle and mute those sounds that I have so professed my love for. And it is a good question. You may sit back down now.
It’sprecisely because it mutes and muffles. These sounds I obsess over, spend such time eking out of your body. So to be able to manipulate and alter them, produce new sounds to listen to… why on earth would I not? To hear that tiny cry you make when I lay my hands on you, only to have the sound submerged behind a gag? Pure ecstasy, beautiful girl.
So even when you’re lying there, blind and mute, always know that I am listening. My ear to your mouth. Ready to drink in the sounds that I force from your body.
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Saturday night, I went to a grand opening for a new play space. I picked up Reaction Junkie, Legal Lolita, and Repressed Boy and we headed to the play party. As we stood in line, we said hello to Legolas and talked. Finally, they opened the doors and we walked in. We explored the mostly empty space, poking around at different pieces of equipment, until Reaction Junkie looked at me and said, “You’re far too free. Let’s go fix that.”
We found a space and put down our stuff. Next thing I knew, I was against the wall, Reaction Junkie’s voice in my ear, asking me what a girl like me was doing dressed like that in a place like this. I whimpered in response, already starting the descent into a nice little headspace. He pulled out his knife and pressed it against my throat, saying “You’re going to do exactly what I say. Do you understand?” I said that I understood. He held the knife in front of my face and said, “Now you’ve seen this and you know I have it, so I can put it away and you’ll behave?” I nodded, and he stepped away, telling me to strip down to my panties. I hurried to comply, afraid of the consequences if I dawdled or acted silly.
Reaction Junkie came up behind me and tied a blindfold over my eyes. I’m very glad he did. Since we were in public, and especially because Legal Lolita was there, I would have had a larger part of myself than usual on the sidelines, observing, instead of being fully immersed in the scene and the headspace. Not to mention, being unable to see leaves me with a heightened uncertainty. Of course, the scene itself was making me uncertain. I had no idea what he had in mind, or even what he might do in a public space. At the beginning of the scene, I had been grinning and happily enjoying myself, but as it went on, the smile fell off my face, and the happy enjoyment shifted to fearful, pained, submissive enjoyment. It became an enjoyment of the reminder of my place, of his power, of his control, and the fact that this isn’t a game.
Once the blindfold was in place, he tied me with my arms behind my back. There would be no getting away, no fighting back. Not that I would try to do either. And not that it would even matter if I did try. He was in control of my mind, my body, and the entire situation. The next thing I knew, I was on the ground. He pushed the knife into me, and I felt the sharp tip digging into my flesh. As he pressed the tip into different parts of my torso, he mused aloud, “How much pressure do you think it would take to pierce your skin?” It was all I could do to keep my reactions to a mere tremble, trying hard not to move too much, not wanting to find the answer to that question by accident by shifting unexpectedly.
Reaction Junkie dragged the knife (Okay. I half believe he used the actual knife for all of this, but I also half believe he used parts of the knife besides the blade or something else for at least some of it but wasn’t and am still not sure and I don’t even want to know because I do like the uncertainty.) along my skin, pricking me with it. Sharp pokes like that tend to make me cry really easily, and I like to let people know, even people I know are okay or like crying, that I may cry soon, just in case they don’t feel like having me cry (yet). I told Reaction Junkie that if he poked me much more I might cry. He asked if I was okay with that. Normally, I’m fine with crying, but this would have been crying in a new place in front of people, so I told him “Let’s keep going, and if I cry, I’ll let you know if I need something else at that point.” He agreed and resumed menacing me.
He pressed the knife against my cheek and threatened to fluid bond me to it. As he pushed it into my skin, there were a couple points where I legitimately felt like it might cut me, or wondered if it was. I was strangely okay with that. I don’t like the idea of actually being cut, but if he wanted to do that, I would try my hardest to take it for him. At one point during the scene, Reaction Junkie said something along the lines of “Do you understand that you’re mine and I can do whatever I want to you and no one will do anything about it?” and when I started to say I understood, he asked if I understood it at an emotional level. I did understand, but not at that deeper level. Not until this scene.
Now I get what it means to say that he owns me. Obviously he can do whatever he wants to me. Not just because he’s physically stronger than I am. More than that, I’ll accept whatever he decides to do because all of me, and everything that is mine, is his. And no one is going to stop him because they would see that I want what is happening. Maybe I won’t want the particular thing at the particular moment. In a broader sense, though, I do want it because he decided to do it. My purpose is to take whatever he dishes out, and to give him whatever he desires. I want him to do anything and everything he wants to me, no matter my preferences.
