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Posts Tagged ‘BDSM’

  1. The Sex Unicorn

    May 1, 2017 by Heather Cole

     

    I’ve been talking a lot about unicorns and sex these days. OK, I talk about sex all the time. It’s the unicorns that keep popping up. (So many dick jokes running through my head right now. Focus, Heather!) Just last week I had the opportunity to write a yummy post for SwingTowns about this one time at the dungeon when we made a willing submissive into a sex unicorn. What the heck is a sex unicorn?? Well, my friends, click here and find out.

    Happy reading!

    Heather


  2. The Fallout of a Breakup

    April 27, 2017 by Heather Cole

    This post has spent a long time in utero. The seed of it took root during the weeks after I ended things with LH. I dissolved our contract around the holidays, and in the first weeks of that freedom after our breakup, I felt reborn. A weight had been lifted, and I could be myself without rules or restrictions. I knew in my heart that I had done the right thing even though re-reading our entries on this blog brought me to tears. The LH/Heather duo that we had been was nothing like where we ended up. I remembered those events, but they felt far removed from the people we were now—almost as if they happened to someone else entirely. The breakup, though, was new territory in the breadth and depth of its pain. I had never experienced a D/s breakup so gut-wrenching.

    LH and I didn’t stop talking right away, and as the strands of our relationship began to further unravel, I saw exactly how entwined we had been. Our communication became strained as we debated until each call and text felt like an exercise in breakup masochism—deliberate cuts to my heart with each word we spoke. But I was reluctant to cut him off. All my old protocols were there waiting to leap into action. It was ironic that a long-distance D/s dynamic had such a hold on me. The tendrils of our power dynamic had sunk deep into my psyche until it was a part of my emotional make-up. There were few parts of my life where I didn’t take him into consideration in some way.

    I spent a lot of time on this blog talking about my independence as a facet of my submission. I had a list of things that showed how independent I was, but when I emerged from the role of lifestyle submissive, I couldn’t help but feel how dependent I was on LH and our roles. For a long time after the breakup I was in denial about it. After the rush of freedom wore off, I turned once again to the man I had called “Daddy.” It was more than a habit that had worn its grooves into me over the years of our togetherness. The Little part of me, that girl that desperately wanted to believe that her daddy would take care of her, wanted to run back into his arms for reassurance.

    It killed me to know that I was afraid to be without him. I woke up in a panic every morning that our shared photos and files would be gone, that I would be blocked from his social media accounts, and I couldn’t bear to look at Fet to see if he had deleted me from his profile.  And those were only surface things. The real hold was that I had bought into the idea of being “his” so wholeheartedly, that I couldn’t imagine myself as anything but his submissive.

    What a galling position to find myself in. I played a role so well, and consented to play it, that it became my identity. And I wanted it. It felt good to me. I was naturally submissive, and with all my heart I wanted to be his. For years I had decided that no matter what happened I was determined to make things work. The man moved halfway around the world, and I insisted that we could continue a healthy dynamic. I convinced myself that a visit every three or four months was enough, and when those visits plummeted in quality and intimacy, I made myself be OK with it. It took me over a year to admit that I was miserable and then longer to muster the courage to change it.

    I spent a lot of time since our breakup questioning my reactions and memories. Didn’t we agree that his needs came first as the Dominant? Wasn’t it my place to serve? When I signed our contract, didn’t I agree to give him control? And I know what you’re thinking. That contract wasn’t anything legally binding. I could have protested and stood up for myself at any time. You would be right, but I wanted so much to be cherished, loved, and taken care of. I thought that if I gave enough of myself to him, that he would reciprocate in equal measure. When he didn’t, I told myself that I could make it enough.

    That’s when I had the big wake up call. With 2016 coming to an end, I took a trip down memory lane and leafed back through my journal. I wrote about the same heartache, the same emotional challenges, the same bullshit over and over again. Then I looked back even further at my serious relationships over the years and saw this string of selfish, manipulative partners. And then I said to myself, holy fuck Heather, DO NOT MAKE THIS YOUR LIFE STORY. I didn’t want to be on my deathbed and think, “Damn, I wasted a lot of time trying to convince emotionally unavailable people to love me.”

    The scales fell from my eyes. It eventually clicked in my brain that when someone said to me, “this is the best I can do,” without changing a blessed thing about their behavior, it meant that it was time for me to get out. It was just another way to let the entire emotional responsibility of a relationship slide off one person and on to another while pretending that it wasn’t a cop out. And when that same person chose to stay out all night drinking with random strangers rather than come home to me waiting in bed, it was a bigger more definite sign. All those signs and it felt like it took forever for me to do something about it.

    Now I’m doing all the things you’re supposed to do after a major split. I got back into therapy. I’m taking better care of my physical self, sleeping more, reading, and allowing myself the space to be alone. The thing is… it takes so much fucking time to recover. That whole annoying analogy of peeling away layers like an onion is irritatingly apt. Odd things will trigger a barrage of emotions, even after thinking that I had processed it and was feeling solid with whatever piece of our past I had dissected. Those patterns of thought where LH was the center of everything… I have to change them. I catch myself ruminating along the well-worn paths, and I have to consciously stop myself. Yet they creep up like insidious friends with false reassurances. Habit does not equal love.

    I do go on the occasional date, and I’ve had some tentative negotiations about playing with various people. None of it feels right to me yet. I probably see Guy the most and that’s sporadic at best. He has his own shit to work out, and we established early on that there are no expectations between us except honesty and authenticity.

    There was also a guy who wanted to explore my confessional fetish, but he failed to get the approval of his wife even though he said he had it. Even after several attempts to make a potential scene work between them, I had to say no. He did me a favor though. I now have a personal rule of no more married poly men or married men in an “open” relationship (unless I’m unicorn-ing, and they’re dear friends first). Then there was a primal guy who wanted a (human girl) pet while on his quest for the love of his life. Plus the super-intense vanilla guy who wanted three dates in a week, so he could judge my “level of engagement.” Not bad men necessarily, but they didn’t fit. I want more than what they offered, and as awesome as I am in and out of the bedroom, I deserve to get what I want.

    I know I’m not the only one in the history of D/s to hurt after a D/s dynamic has ended. I know that dominants hurt too and can find themselves just as fucked up. I guess what I’m trying to say in all of this is that what you’re feeling is real, and it’s a challenge to sort through the wreckage of your heart and head to find a place to begin healing. It’s possible, though, and that last person you fell in love with doesn’t have to be the pattern of the person you love in the future. Be patient with yourself and forgiving. Allow yourself lots of time to feel stuff and listen to what your gut is saying. How you did D/s the last time, doesn’t have to be the way you do D/s down the road. You’re going to be OK, and so am I.


  3. The Incidental Sadist

    October 31, 2016 by Heather Cole

     

    He requested tea with my beating. That was new.

    From my vantage point, with my arms bound behind me with rope and my ankle cuffs clipped to the spreader bar, I could see steam wafting from the cup. He sipped the tea and perused the implements spread across the table. It reminded me of someone shopping for the perfect fruit, not a British sadist in contemplation.

    Strike One – Heather

    Things were subtly different from the first time we played. Some of it was a consequence of my actions, deliberate and incidental. I had forgotten repeatedly to update my shared calendar which made scheduling time at the dungeon a challenge for the Sadist. Eve, the Domme supervising our play time and the coordinator of this event, “helpfully” shared my sassy texts regarding the calendar. I hadn’t curbed my tongue. Strike one – Heather.

    Strike Two – Heather

    On the day of our scene, I hit unusual traffic on my way to the dungeon. I arrived half an hour late, and although the Sadist accommodated the change, I was going to pay for it. Strike two.

    None of these occurrences compiled themselves in my mind to give me something to worry about. No, I arrived flustered and rushed to find that Eve had set up on her own. This meant that all sorts of items were out, things that I probably wouldn’t have chosen. Ouchy things. I had given my limits months ago when the Sadist and I first played, and I hadn’t thought about updating that list before arriving. But the Sadist wasn’t the only one changing things up. I was too.

    When the Sadist and I first came together I had a master, and I had everything approved by him before I played with the Sadist. Now I was free of my contract, and I was the sole person responsible for negotiating the scene. But I had mostly forgotten about that until I was dressed in the outfit the Sadist had brought and bound to the large wooden frame at the center of the room. My thoughts resembled a sheaf of paper being thrown into the air on a blustery day. He approached me with safety scissors in hand, and it finally occurred to me that I had no idea what was going to happen. I hadn’t been proactive about what I wanted during our interaction, and now it was going to bite me in the ass. Probably literally.

    Well, damn, Heather

    The Sadist pinched and caressed me through the black dress as I watched him warily. He used the scissors to cut away the fabric over my breasts and pussy. Before I could ask anything, his hand came down swiftly in a chopping motion against my right nipple. The pain was swift and immediate, and I felt tears form at the corners of my eyes. He didn’t pause and whipped his hand down the front of the other nipple. I couldn’t tell if I wanted to cry from the pain or whether the nipple slapping reminded me so much of my ex. It was my ex who had trained me to endure nipple torture. He would hit me like that in the shower or anywhere I might be exposed. He was the only man who had hurt me in that way, and now the Sadist was doing it too. My feelings got tangled with the pain. Then the Sadist gripped my jaw and brought my gaze to his.

    “You’ve been very naughty, Heather.” He tapped my cheek with his thick fingers. “You didn’t update your calendar and then you were late.”

    I started to protest, and he smacked my cheek. Another slap. And another. I began to cry in earnest.

    Again he began slapping my nipples, but I couldn’t bear it. I said “yellow,” and breathed a sigh of relief when he stepped back. Of course that respite was short. He cut more holes in the dress and abused more flesh. He tickled me, because he knew I hated it, then slapped me again when I laughed helplessly. When the cloth hung off me in strips, he shoved aside the remnants of the black thong I wore and rubbed my clit in rough circles. He knew I wouldn’t orgasm like that, but he handled me in such a way because he knew he could. It was degrading, and the humiliation made my cheeks burn in addition to the slaps.

    That was probably the biggest difference of all. The Sadist had arrived this day with the confidence of knowing the submissive he was dealing with. This was our fourth time playing, and he seemed confident that he could challenge me. I felt that self-assurance in every slap, every strike of the cane, in the way he tied me and pushed in ways that he hadn’t before. He punched the meaty part of my chest and paddled the bottoms of my feet. He explored the most sensitive parts of my body with brutal calculation, favoring the tender flesh on my sides and inner thighs. The hardest part, for me, was the predicament bondage that he had dreamed up for the occasion.

    The man tore off the remnants of my clothes and unhooked the spreader bar. He made me stand parallel to the wooden frame with my arms stretched straight in front of me. Around each wrist he looped rope that was then tied to the frame. If I dropped my arms, the loops around each wrist would tighten. He clipped pulleys to the chains at the top of the frame, and fed rope through each. He tied frozen bottles of water to the ends. But it was the other end of the rope that made me anxious. Each rope was tied to a zipper of clothespins. (A zipper is a term to describe clothespins tied in a consecutive line to rope or string. Once the clothespins are pinched on the skin of the submissive, the top can pull one end of the string and pull each clip off in rapid succession. When the clothespins are lining each side of the labia, for example, they come off like the teeth of a zipper.)

    One zipper had ten clothespins that pinched my labia, and the other longer zipper had clothespins circling each breast like a deranged porcupine. The issue was never the clothespins going on in these situations. The painful repercussions always happened when they were ripped off and blood rushed back to the wounded areas.

    My predicament was this: if I dropped the water bottles, the weight would rip off the zippers. If I dropped the water under two minutes, we would start all over again. If I held the freezing water bottles for longer, he would tie on more bottles and things would become heavier. The decision was agony. There was no way I could “win.” Any which way and those zippers would come off. I debated and squirmed as the icy bottles melted in my hands. Two more bottles went on as I danced in place. My arms were tiring quickly. I decided finally to drop the bottles on my left that were tied to the zipper around my pussy. Squeezing my eyes shut in tense anticipation, I dropped the bottles. They fell to the floor with a thud, but the zipper stayed.

    “What happened?” I shrieked, going on to my tiptoes in response to the tightened clothespins.

    The Sadist looked at me calmly. “I suppose we need more weight.” He grabbed the rope and yanked with all his might.

    The clothespins flew off my pussy, and I would have doubled over if I hadn’t been tied to the other one. I made a garbled exclamation, the pain between my legs distracting me from articulation.

    “Going to let go of the other?” he asked with mild amusement.

    It didn’t matter what I decided. No sooner had the bottle dropped from my hand then he was jerking the other rope. This time I shrieked and clutched my abused breasts. I hadn’t felt anything like that in ages, and the sharp pain of the blood circulating made me whimper. The Sadist pushed the frozen bottles against my nipples, and I begged him to stop being helpful.  

    He wasn’t finished with me yet. The Sadist had me lie down on the massage table, and then used almost every implement laid out beside his tea cup. He turned my body from pale pink to bright red. And he saved the cane for last. The thing that I loathed and loved, the only tool that was guaranteed to undo the last pieces of my self-control. Again it was because of my ex.

    The cane had been his favorite, and I through the years of us being master and slave, I had learned to read the strength and angle of its fall against my flesh like reading the sky for clues to the weather. I couldn’t be caned and not think of my ex. The Sadist didn’t know that part of it, so it didn’t slow him. The caning felt like it lasted forever, and the bruises it gave me matched the ones on my heart. I cried, my sobs muffled by the pillow beneath me.

    Finally he decided to finish it, and he pulled me to my feet and had me pick out a dildo. I pushed it into place on the fucking machine and sat down so that I straddled the stiff rubber cock. The Sadist then rocked me back and forth on the machine, controlling how fast the dildo penetrated my pussy. I had orgasm after orgasm, my tears replaced with sweat and cum. Finally he stopped the machine, and I tried to get my synapses firing again.

    I have no idea what I said or what he said at that point. We spoke of something pleasant before he left, I’m sure. I don’t remember much of anything except that I gave him many hugs in gratitude. My brain had stopped working but my heart was full. I hope he knew how thankful I was for the pain and the pleasure. And the bittersweet memories too.


  4. Before You Go Out To Play

    March 8, 2016 by Heather Cole

    Vagina Antics Dungeon

    Helping out at my local dungeon means that I see all types of people at play. Kink is a varied tapestry of body shapes, gender identity, lifestyle choices, and sexual preferences. And that’s just what I can see from the outside. Everyone brings their moods, their varying energies, and emotions to our extreme games as well. There is no “one way” to do kink, and on the days that I go to the dungeon, I’m reminded that I’m still learning and having new experiences. I doubt I’ll ever get to a place where I say that I’ve “seen it all” when it comes to kink. It was a recent dungeon encounter, and a new situation that I hadn’t experienced before, that gave me the spark of an idea for this post.

    Today, dear vagina fans, we’re going to cover a few basic concepts to consider before you go out to play. These tips aren’t only good for dungeons, but also for any type of sexual/kinky play. Whether you’re hiring an escort (Sydney escorts) for a special night, paying to see your pro dominant for a session, or renting some space/time at a BDSM club, there are some basics to keep in mind.

    Before you get on your high horse about me mentioning Jaipur escorts, pro dominants (i.e. dominatrix), or any other type of sex worker, you should know that I support sex workers and that I write from a nonjudgmental space. I condemn human trafficking. People who choose sexwork (for whatever reason) shouldn’t be criminalized for offering a service. If you want to read more about my views, you can click here. If you’re horribly offended… honey, this ain’t the blog you should be reading.

    Now on with our friendly, neighborhood kinky play tips:

    1.Cleanliness is next to… um, it gets you closer to the person you desire – This should seem like a no-brainer, right? You’re probably rolling your eyes, thinking, “of course I’m going to shower before getting naked with my special someone.” This is good. You absolutely should. However, if you’re going to the dungeon between meetings or slipping out for a spicy massage on your lunch break, you won’t be showing up shower fresh. In fact, a lot of body functioning could have happened between that shower you had first thing in the morning and the moment when the dominant is tying you up for some CBT (that’s cock and ball torture).

    Human bodies smell. It’s our nature to emit pheromones, and our bodies have a variety of odors depending on diet, etc. So do yourself and your play partner a huge favor, and freshen up, buttercup! Personally I carry around wet wipes. They’re not only for babies, and they’re handy for all sorts of situations (sexual and not). I promise you that the person you’re getting naked with will thank you too.

    Spruce up those genitals, y’all, and don’t forget your anus. Yes, I said it. Clean your anus. I’m being explicit here, because sometimes it gets overlooked if a person thinks no one is going to play with it specifically. Well, even if your anus is to remain virginal, if it’s unclean your play partner and anyone else in the vicinity will be smelling it. Of course accidents can happen, but being proactive and cleaning up before playing will win you huge points with your person/people of interest.

    2.  If you’ve reserved dungeon play space, or booked time with a companion, please show up when you say you will. If you can’t make the appointment, give the dungeon owner/monitors lots and lots of advance notice so that they can fill that time slot. Play space is often at a premium, so if you can’t use it, please give your kinky comrades a chance. The same goes for dates with Gurgaon escorts, and appointments with masseuses, pro dominants, etc. Just because it’s sexy, play time, it doesn’t mean that flaking out at the last minute (less than 24 hours notice) is acceptable behavior.

    3.  Paying money for a service doesn’t mean that you can do whatever the hell you want to once you get there. This is a personal pet peeve of mine. If you pay for time/space at a dungeon and need assistance creating the scene that fulfills all your fantasies, please don’t act like you own the people who are helping you. A person can consent to helping bind you in restraints and then torturing your nipples until you cry, but that doesn’t mean that you can do whatever the hell you want to them because they’re part of your fantasy. You must ask if you can touch them if you haven’t negotiated this beforehand. You may have paid for the use of the equipment, space, and time, but you do not control the people involved.

    I understand that going to a dungeon is a heady experience, especially if someone has never been exposed to BDSM practices. Everywhere you look there’s skin, writhing bodies, and people in the throes of emotional and physical dynamics that can be intense and arousing. To the average person, I’m sure it looks like a sex circus. But everyone there has negotiated their scenes, paid their fees, and are creating their fantasies while respecting others around them and giving consent. (Or they should be. Nothing will get you banned from a community faster than breaking those basic tenets. Also, public dungeons typically have strict rules regarding penetration and exchange of fluids. In other words, there aren’t any.) So please be respectful of those who are helping you experience your dungeon fantasy. You won’t go wrong by asking before you touch someone else and cleaning up your play space afterwards is a sign of common decency. A heartfelt thank you to your host won’t go awry either.

    There are some great resources in print now regarding the ‘how tos’ of playing with others. I have a list of good reads in the ‘Beginners Kink’ section. Play clean; play safe, sweeties.  


  5. In the Hands of a Stranger

    October 7, 2015 by Heather Cole

    Aaron Apt 2015

    I lay on the couch, draped over the stranger’s lap with my face buried in a cushion. My dress bunched around my waist and my panties had been pushed down to my knees. Stinging slaps rained down on my bottom as I fought not to squirm. The man enjoyed hitting high along the top of my asscheeks or on the sides, not across the meat of my bum where I preferred. I didn’t complain, though. Instead I bit the inside of my cheek and fought to endure the burning fire that spread across my flesh. I silently vowed to do my best and submit, because I wanted to make Daddy proud of me.

    This particular situation was new for me. Daddy had loaned me out to a stranger for a precious two hours. I had seen the man before and had watched his scene with a different submissive. At the time, I hadn’t thought much about him—not good or bad. It was the idea of playing with a stranger that seemed like a distant possibility. He was an older, British gentleman with a ready smile and large hands. He hadn’t been practicing kink for a decade, but now he wanted to get back into the scene. The problem was that he didn’t have a regular submissive partner, and his life was constructed in such a way that being open about his preferences would have proved disastrous. He was discreet, and he wanted to play. Part of me loved the thrill of submitting to someone I didn’t know, while the other half of me felt anxious about it.

    Daddy agreed to the arrangement because a close friend, and dominant, supervised since he was unable to be present.The logical part of my brain told me that I wasn’t in real physical danger, but butterflies still filled my stomach. Daddy had negotiated the terms of the scene, and the three of us had reviewed my hard and soft limits beforehand. Even with all the things I knew the stranger wouldn’t do to me, that still left a lot of things, painful things, that could happen.

    My friend gave me a playful slap on my reddened skin as I passed her, making me wince. “I think he’s taking it easy on you,” she whispered. The wide grin on her face didn’t reassure me at all.

    The stranger led me by the hand from the sitting area into a large play room. He bid me to stand under a square, wooden frame and ran his hands over my waist and hips.

    “I love the clothes that women wear,” he said in his proper accent, “but I prefer them naked.” He pulled my dress over my head and stripped me out of my lingerie. “Bend over and spread yourself open. I want to see what I’ve borrowed for the afternoon.”

    His words slid like a knife between my ribs. This wasn’t my Daddy who objectified and degraded me with love in his heart. This man didn’t know anything about me. He wanted me because I would submit. I was a living, breathing sex toy that he could use for his own pleasure. In that moment I felt powerful, that I could give the gift of myself to please another, but on the heels of that thought came a needling voice, what kind of girl lets a stranger use her? I felt myself blush as I spread my legs apart.

    The stranger complimented my body as he tightened wide leather cuffs around my wrists and ankles. He clipped the cuffs to metal rings at the top of the frame, stretching me almost to my tiptoes, and then placed a spreader bar between my ankles. I was rendered immobile. He then produced the final touch… a blindfold. My heartbeat ratcheted into high gear as he covered my eyes. I was blind and bound, and in the hands of someone I didn’t know. I had surveyed the table full of impact toys before we started, but I didn’t know which one he would use. I strained to hear the slightest noise, but everyone remained silent. Goosebumps marched over my skin, and all my muscles tensed.

    His wide palms skimmed my ribcage, making a path over my abdomen and up to my breasts. A breath I didn’t know I had been holding escaped from between my lips. His meaty fingers fastened on a nipple, and he squeezed as hard as he could. My knees buckled at the pain lancing through me.

    “Yellow!” I gasped.

    My caution word made him release me, and I explained that my super-sensitive nipples couldn’t take that level of abuse. If he wanted me to last for the entire two hours, he needed to respect my body and pain tolerances.

    I don’t know how long I stayed on the frame. Time became blurred when it was reduced to the moments between body shaking blows and reverent caresses. The stranger was kind and cruel in turns, offering his embrace after a particularly powerful slap to my inner thigh, and then stepping away and retreating into silence until he decided to hit me again. It was the worst kind of cat and mouse, because I couldn’t protect myself and had no way to retreat. Silently I yelled, “leave me alone you mean man! I want my Daddy!” On the outside, though, I whimpered and squealed. Finally my body had had enough, and my fingers got tingly from being above my head for so long. He took me down immediately.

    Again he led me by the hand, this time to a massage table. He positioned me so that I was bent over at the waist, my abraded nipples protesting as they pressed against the cotton sheet. The blindfold came off, and I asked if I could have a tissue to blow my nose. My eyes were wet and my nose was running, but I didn’t feel upset anymore. Some conscious thought entered my awareness, and I recognized the signs of subspace. I still felt everything, but I didn’t care as much. I experienced a feeling of floating, of being wrapped in a huge bubble of not giving a fuck.

    I had warned the stranger at the beginning that canings made me cry, but that the tears weren’t a sign to stop. I told him that I would use red or yellow to signal if I were truly in distress. My friend reminded him again of my safewords, and then he gave me my instructions. I had to count each stroke, thank him, and then ask for another. With tears trickling down my cheeks, we began.

    He didn’t cane me like my Daddy. Memories tugged at me, threatening to send me down the rabbit hole of missing my sir. I didn’t want to fall apart, and I didn’t want to ruin our fun with the spectre of a physically absent dominant. So I remembered instead that this had always been a fantasy of ours. Even though sir wasn’t there watching, we still shared this adventure. I was pretty damn lucky to be able to live out this fantasy, even if it wasn’t exactly how I had envisioned it. But the stranger wasn’t finished. A flogging followed the caning, and then there was figging and more breast torture with clothespins and ice cubes.

    By the end of our time together, I was blissed out on endorphins and uncaring about what he wanted to do next with me. It was the kind of high that really good bruises give you. I felt like a ragdoll, a real life sex toy that had been used hard and who loved it.

    Hours later I sat in front of my computer and skyped with Daddy. I had to cry a little bit, because I missed him. I wished he had been there, that it had been his cane against my thighs and his arms around me. But by the end of our talk, I was coming back to myself. Daddy said he was proud of me and that he loved me. I was proud of myself, too. I had endured a stranger’s sadism and had pleased him. Not every girl will take that kind of attention and enjoy it too.


  6. Nurse Heather

    September 5, 2015 by Heather Cole

    Depositphotos_Nurse Heather_2

     

    When you hear the words ‘medical scene,’ what images come to mind? For me, I see a scene in grainy, black and white, with Germans in uniforms and lab coats looming over some hapless patient strapped to a metal examination table. The words send a shiver over me that is equal parts fear and excitement. I’ve never experienced a medical scene myself, but I’ve always been fascinated/afraid of them. Luckily for me, I got the chance to participate in one without being the victim… er, patient. I was invited to assist Dr. Dominant as her nurse, and I eagerly accepted–excited to finally experience some medical play.

    The patient had a medical fetish and would become aroused by both auditory and physical sensations related to medical procedures. Meaning that he found the physical sensation of a medical exam (being poked and prodded) erotic, as well as the noises of the exam (the clink of metal instruments) and the medical terms we spoke. He particularly enjoyed proper, anatomically correct words, and to be observed and objectified.

    Dr. D was dressed professionally in a black pencil skirt and black, platform heels, with a white doctor’s coat and a pair of glasses perched on her nose. Her demeanor never strayed from that of a stern, slightly aloof professional, and she was specific with her instructions and expectations of the patient. I tried not to giggle with eagerness, because it would have blown my cover as an experienced nurse.

    The patient lay on the examination table after having stripped off all his clothes. He was a man in his sixties, with a thick shock of graying hair and piercing eyes. His large cock stood at attention in anticipation of the exam. I looked him over with a friendly smile and an appreciative eye, admiring his nude body.

    Dr. D ignored my titters and immediately began discussing the patient with me as if he were only a body on the table. We reviewed his chart and discussed how to conduct his exam.

    My job as nurse was to assist the doctor, but also to be a supportive presence and to offer comfort when needed. (When I played with Dr. D, I liked to think of myself as the “good” cop to her “bad” cop.) Even though the patient eagerly submitted to the exam and had, in fact, requested specific aspects of it, I was there to stroke his arm in support and reassure him.

    We began with the basics: tested his reflexes, listened to his heartbeat and pulses, inspected his mouth and ears, then examined his rectum with well-lubed fingers, his prostate, and gave him an enema for cleansing. He moaned with arousal when I said, “Dr. D, the patient has taken the entire enema.” And when she replied, “The patient’s rectum is thirsty,” he squirmed with excitement. But that was also a sign that he needed to expel the enema. *wink wink*

    Dr. D adjusted the height of the medical stand to slow the flow of water from the rubber bag hanging from it. “Nurse Heather,” she said, “we need to test the patient’s eyesight. Please lift your scrubs, and we’ll see if he can see your vagina.”

    I obeyed, and the patient’s eyes grew wide as I slowly lifted the skirt of my uniform. I only permitted him to see the juncture of my thighs, thoroughly enjoying the tease.

    “May I touch?” he whispered.

    “First of all, you must ask my permission before you ask for Heather’s,” Dr. D said in a cold voice. “And no, you may not touch Nurse Heather there. Nurse Heather, however, may touch herself.”

    I grinned and let two of my fingers make gentle circles over my clit.

    “You’re masturbating!” the patient exclaimed.

    “Our medical practice believes in fostering a healthy sexual life,” Dr. D replied.

    I couldn’t help myself. The playful nature of the scene had caused my own arousal to build, and I slipped two fingers between my folds. Hearing the patient express his appreciation of my body, made me wet. I was having so much fun that an orgasm already shimmered just below my skin.

    “I can hear how wet she is,” the patient said with awe. “This is the most erotic experience I’ve ever had.”

    “Nurse Heather,” Dr. D said, a small smile on her lips, “you may orgasm when you wish.”

    It didn’t take much to push me into that golden release, and the orgasm rushed through me in moments. I laughed and gasped at the force of the pleasure.

    “I can’t believe you came that fast,” the patient said.

    I smiled as I cleaned my hands. “The fact that you were so pleased by our scene made me want to come with happiness.” And that was the truth.

    It turned out that this medical scene wasn’t at all like I’d imagined. Of course, that’s because it wasn’t my scene, with me on the examination table. I was only in a supporting role. But it’s reassuring to know that I don’t have to go plunging into the terrifying/exhilarating medical scene that I’ve seen in German porn in order to experience medical play. There are baby steps, fun steps, that I can experience as I familiarize myself with the new (to me) medical frontier of BDSM. Also, my next nurse’s uniform is going to be latex, or like Daryl Hannah’s in Kill Bill. 


  7. She’s just a girl on fire

    August 15, 2015 by Heather Cole

    woman with candle

    Fire brings up all sorts of emotions when you play with it. Even before the flames kiss your skin, there’s the rush of anticipation blowing through you, accompanied by a flicker of fear. It’s elemental. Primal. And when my friend texted me about joining her and her partner for some fire play, I was all for it.

    My introduction to fire play began with a text:

    “Can I light you on fire?”

    It was sent from my friend, Stormy, who is the queen of no-context texts. I replied, of course, with a similar cheeky attitude.

    “Literally on fire? No. I like these shorts too much.”

    S: “Oh, I’d need you naked first.”

    Me: “Then yes! You can absolutely set me on fire!”

    Before you think that I let any ‘ol person light me on fire, I already knew that Stormy’s partner, D, was experienced with fire play. She wanted to learn too, and she needed a demo bottom to experiment with. Add to that the fact that I adore them both and trust them implicitly, so I knew that I was in good hands for my first foray into fire.

    D created torches from fondue forks, cotton batting, and cotton finger bandages. He then dipped them in rubbing alcohol and set them on fire. I know there are a lot of details in the process that I’m missing, but my focus wasn’t on how it all worked. I was more interested in how it would feel. (Hey, if you want to play with fire, for heaven’s sake, do your research and go to a demonstration first.)

    Even with my full consent, I felt a spike of anxiety as I lay on the massage table in their bedroom and waited to feel the first burst of warmth across my body. We started out with me on my stomach on the massage table. D explained to Stormy the different techniques he enjoyed as the torches hovered over my body in various places. The gentle warmth was soothing as I closed my eyes, and some of the tension in my body drained away. Sometimes he drew a path of alcohol first, followed by a lighted torch that would burn the trail of rubbing alcohol. He often brushed behind the flames with his palm to ensure that all the fire was out. The point was to burn the alcohol and feel the fire without doing any damage to the skin. I appreciated that.

    The experimentation began, and Stormy lit lines of fire over my back. D watched from the bed with a blanket beside him in case we needed to smother an out-of-control flame. Even though we were consenting adults, we were playing with fire–literally. And it was better to have safety precautions in place beforehand instead of hoping for the best that there would be no accidents.

    Stormy’s light touch and the racing fire gave me all sorts of ideas. Her excitement about learning a new skill lent itself to my building arousal, and I couldn’t help but squirm beneath her ministrations. The way she manipulated the flames made me wish that she’d do even more with her hands. I felt a keen edge of danger that accompanied the heat, even though I knew logically that I was mostly safe. And all of it fed into a wanton throbbing between my legs.

    I didn’t act upon my desires, mainly because I hadn’t cleared any of that beforehand with my sir, and secondly, I can be a complete wimp when it comes to making the first move on a woman. At the end of the night I gave D and stormy friendly hugs and gratitude, and went straight home to work out my raging libido with my vibrator. I reported everything to sir, and enjoyed myself so much that when sir arrived stateside for his month-long vacation, he asked to learn fire play too.

    My second fire play scene began with me, once again, face-down on the massage table. Even though I couldn’t see the three people circling me, I could identify the individuals from their different fire styles. Stormy had an even rhythm:  fire, sweep of the hand, fire, sweep of the hand. She could have lulled me into a meditative, relaxed state, even when she traced the flame along the soles of my feet. D placed the alcohol and torch with more force. His movements incited a visceral reaction, something I felt in my gut. There was the staccato rush of intense heat, and then it was gone a split-second later that made me writhe. Sir’s effect on me was different.

    His flame was sneaky, and he enjoyed watching it burn along the dips and curves of my flesh. He didn’t have a particular rhythm or pattern, and he didn’t always sweep behind the trailing alcohol with his hand. As a result, the heat grew more intense depending on where he placed its path, and there were several times I squealed in protest, worried that it was burning too long.

    Daddy knows how to play with my mind like no other, and when he told me to turn over so that my front was exposed, I knew he was going to twist my feelings into the fire that played over my tenderest bits. Blue flame danced over my breasts and nipples, and he made me watch, chuckling when I begged to be allowed to close my eyes again. Seeing the fire made the sensations on my skin ratchet up in intensity, which fought against my will to remain as motionless as possible. Stormy came to sit between my legs, her hands stroking my calves and thighs.

    Again the desire built inside me. The stimulus was intense, and my instincts warred against one another. I wanted to kiss Stormy and arch against sir’s hand on my breast. I could have brushed against the front of D’s body when he bent over me or stroked the growing wetness at the juncture of my thighs. But I had to remain still as the fire bound me in place more effectively than any rope. Their attentions and the rioting sensations made the entire scene an intense roller coaster ride. To be honest, I can’t even remember if Daddy gave me an orgasm or not—everything began to run together in a long series of intense stimulus. I had no sense of time, but when they finally wound down, I was spent.

    D cleaned up while I clumsily got back into my clothes. After many thank yous to Stormy and D for the amazing experience, I asked Daddy to drive because I was spacey. He surprised me, and instead of going directly home, he took a detour to our favorite burger joint to feed me cheeseburgers at midnight. Later we snuggled in bed as my endorphin high gradually faded, and I reflected on the different sensations of fire play vs the impact play that I typically enjoy. Both are dangerous, and I’m lucky to have relationships where I skirt that danger safely yet still experience a thrill. I got to be that girl on fire.

     


  8. Dear Heather: Can We Talk About Pain in Play

    April 4, 2015 by Heather Cole

    Sparks of blue water on a white background ...

     

    Heather,
    You have written about the pain you enjoy during play. Can you talk about / share tips on how to expand one’s pain threshold? How to find that quiet inner place and stay there?
    Thanks!
    Rachel

    Dear Rachel,

    The good news is that our pain thresholds are completely subjective. This means that with practice and training we can increase them. If you work at different pain coping techniques, you will be able to meld pleasure and pain into one or release the pain altogether. It’s within our control, as the receiver of the stimulus, to manage the pain in play. The Top who’s delivering the stimulus can help or hinder our processing, depending on their intention for the scene, but ultimately it rests in our hands. Er, brains.

    There are three factors that impact how I process pain in BDSM: 1. my headspace, 2. the intention of the Top applying the stimulus, and 3. the type of stimulus. #3 is of lesser importance than the other two, because again, it’s going to be my brain and mindset that will be doing the heavy lifting of pain management in a scene. All three of these factors have places where they overlap and interconnect, and you’ll be able to figure out the ways they work together for you.

    Finding your inner ‘quiet place’ takes practice, so I suggest exploring through visualization and meditation before you’re involved in a scene. This is the first step in stretching your pain threshold. My favorite quote from Dune is, “Fear is the mindkiller,” and you don’t have to ride giant worms through the sand to relate. The fear we experience anticipating the stimulus (regardless of whether it’s bondage, impact play, knives, needles, or whatever) is the checkmate to our freedom from pain. So the anxiety about how the cane is going to feel whacking your ass will counteract releasing those feelings and extending the experience. Let go of your pre-scene jitters through some deep-breathing/relaxation techniques, and the memory of how that feels to be peaceful and quiet can be your foundation as you begin a scene.

    Have you ever meditated? The elements of meditation are simple. Focus on making your breath deep and even. Although your body is undergoing physical, consensual stress, centering your focus on how you breathe will allow you to shift your awareness away from the stimulus happening to your physical self. With meditation, it’s a combination of deep breathing and relaxing your body that allows you to shift awareness. Our overall goal is to feel the pain but not hold on to it. The more we can let it go, the longer we can experience the stimulus and extend our play. Quieting your mind and evening out your breath will aid you in accomplishing this.

    Sometimes it helps me during a scene to visualize the impact as raindrops falling on water or bursts of colors that then dissolve into nothing. Think of it like fireworks. There’s the build of noise (which is the building stimulus), then a shot of color that bursts into stars (the pain of impact), and then the glittering light fades away into darkness (the pain goes away). Move that pain from the point of impact to nothingness. Again, it’s that shifting of awareness that transforms the pain into something other than this overwhelming thing that we’re desperate to escape.

    When I play with others, sir and I typically negotiate a date and I have lots of time to prepare. This means visualizing myself processing stimulus easily, and most importantly, feeling the pain enter and leave my body easily. We want it to leave, right? What we don’t want is to become so overwhelmed that we have to “red” and call all action to a halt, unless it’s necessary for your emotional or physical well-being. My mantra is that pain is fleeting, and my focus is on breathing through it. My darling sir, however, often wants to keep me on the edge. His intention is to keep my awareness sharp, and instead of letting me drift away on a wave of endorphins, he wants to test my boundaries. Delightfully sadistic, right? Sometimes, I can’t find that quiet place no matter what I do. My emotions are tumultuous, and I can’t catch my breath. Those are the times that I can only surrender and endure the rollercoaster ride. Despite my best intentions, sometimes pain gets the better of me, and I end up pleading for mercy. Let’s face it, sometimes our Dominants want tears. And this brings me to the second factor: the intention of your Top.

    If your Top is working with you to aid or train you to process pain, how they apply the stimulus can help tremendously. Several different chemicals are released naturally during the course of a scene, but the one that BDSM practitioners talk about the most is endorphins. Our endorphin friends are natural pain managers. The body releases them in waves, and your first hit can occur pretty fast with something as simple as nipple stimulation. Of course, everyone’s chemistry is different so the timeframe of release will vary. Generally you can achieve, with the Top’s help of course, your first endorphin rush within the first few moments of stimulus, and then it’s five to ten minutes to work up to the next release. In the example of a caning, the Top’s first hits will release endorphins into your bloodstream. Then it’s five to ten minutes of minimal stimulus, or a sensual caning, to allow your body to build up the supply, and harder hits to release it again. As more and more endorphins enter your bloodstream, your body will require more impact or stimulus in order to release more. It’s all about build-up, baby.

    I’m guessing, Rachel, that you might process some stimulus easier than others. Do you have a favorite implement? Is the thud of a flogger more soothing than the sting of a metal spatula? Or do you favor sting over thud? Practicing with your favorite impact toy is the easiest way to begin stretching that pain threshold. For example, the rhythmic thud of my favorite, heavy flogger feels like a security blanket to me. The flip side of the coin is that something sharp like a knife. Not only does the keen edge give me the flutter of anxiety butterflies of anticipation, but the sensation of being cut isn’t soothing to me. That pain process is trickier for me to release, but I’m working on it.

    The key to all of this, however, is consent and trust. I can’t stress this enough. I’m free to focus on my pain during play, because I trust that my sir isn’t going to do anything that will irreparably damage me. I trust that he wants my happiness as much as I desire to please him. We have spent a lot of time and effort discussing limits and giving consent to various activities. And if I play with someone else, the limits of stimulus are carefully negotiated. Nothing happens without consent from all parties involved, and during play, my sir or the Top checks in with me to see how I’m feeling during the scene. We use the colors “green,” “yellow,” and “red” to indicate how I’m processing physically and emotionally, and it’s that kind of clear, open communication that leads to a successful scene. Even though I may feel nervous about something we might do, I never fear for my safety. Neither should you.


  9. An Anniversary: Dominance and Submission

    February 20, 2015 by Heather Cole

    Fashion photo of handsome man and two women

    The end of this month marks an anniversary for Sir and me. It was our first date, and I cooked him homemade saag paneer (an Indian dish) and baked him a cake. Little did I know that we would sign our Master/slave contract three weeks later. I will have been his collared sex slave for two years, and ever since I saw his calendar reminder of our anniversary, I’ve been reflecting on the evolution of our dynamic. I’m accustomed to long musings, just look at my blog posts for evidence of this, but this year’s anniversary reflections are particularly interesting with the phenomena of Fifty Shades as its backdrop.

    It’s easy for people to recognize the stereotypical male Dominant/female submissive trope. Like the dude in the photo above, the stereotype is that the male Dominant has scantily clad ladies prancing around following his orders. I understand the allure of the fantasy. The alpha male swoops in, makes the woman hot and bothered, fucks her into many mutual orgasms, and all is right in the romantic world. It’s one of the reasons why I write erotica, and why Fifty Shades of Grey broke the box office. The reality of Dominance and submission is far richer than what can be communicated through media. It’s not always grand kinky gestures all the time, and it’s the day-to-day interactions with Sir that give our D/s depth and meaning.

    I don’t resent the FSoG converts flocking to Fetlife and snatching up handcuffs from Spencer’s. I used to be one of those people with a huge exclamation mark above their heads and eyes newly opened with titillating kinky knowledge. My catalyst was a dying marriage and the movie Secretary. And by the time I entered into a relationship with Sir, I had already been around the D/s block once. I don’t think either one of us would consider ourselves the stereotypical Dominant/submissive, but in the beginning of our relationship, we probably had some of those expectations. For example, the stereotype that a Dominant should always be in control and emotionally distant because of that control.

    I think it’s bullshit.

    A person might be able to meet that stereotype if they only wanted to role play for a specified amount of time within specified parameters. And in the beginning of our relationship, I think Sir felt that expectation—that he should be in control at all times. But the gift of D/s to me is that the authentic communication required to sustain a dynamic dissolves the barriers between partners. We’re not robots or actors. We expose ourselves through Dominance and submission:  physically, mentally, and emotionally. We reveal our true selves in order to deepen our connection and cross boundaries. I wanted Sir to tell me how he felt, especially how our interactions affected him. Dominance and submission together can be an act of trust, and it can be a gift for both the giver and the receiver.

    After we got together, I clung to my independence outside of fucking, and I told Sir that I didn’t want to be micro-managed. He assured me that he didn’t want to choose my clothing or tell me what to write. Gradually, as we shared more of our time and thoughts, Sir began to ask more of me. He pushed at those boundaries that I had erected, and I had a lot of feelings about it. Many of them documented here. He asked for more of me, and as our relationship deepened and trust grew, I gave him parts of me that I hadn’t shown to anyone. He became more than my mentor, he evolved into my protector. That “daddy” aspect of D/s that I swore I would never want became part of our play. And the games we created reinforced our roles. Even when I pitched a fit and resisted a task, I eventually complied, because in my heart of hearts, I needed to obey him to make myself happy and to feel complete.

    That’s a factor that I think fails to come through in books and movies. Submission can be about playing obedient on the weekends or in the bedroom, but living in submission, with a Dominant at the helm of your relationship means digging deeper. D/s can be a journey inward as much as it is being tied up and fucked. The trick to that is revealing your inner self to the other. Not sexy at all, right? It can even feel scary at times. Like, what if I reveal a jealous or angry part of myself that makes Sir not desire me? Or worse, what if he shuts me out because he doesn’t want to deal with irrational me?

    Like I said before, it’s an act of faith and trust. I remarked to a friend lately that traditional relationships are a challenge for me, because I prefer to live in the extremes. My passiveness, which can be a detriment in the role of traditional girlfriend, is an asset as a sex slave. On the other side of the spectrum, my brattiness can be a positive within the context of D/s too. The control that Sir exerts over me is as much a construct of his desires as it is mine. He calls it a “tight hug” and during our time together, I have wanted that hug tighter and tighter. Especially now that he lives overseas. Those activities that we call games–like sending Sir pics of two outfits every night so that he can decide what I wear and how to style my hair for the next day–are ways in which we tell each other that we’re committed to our dynamic, and that we love each other so much that we want to make that effort. Sir promises me that he will show up every single day to talk to me, and every single day I see his handsome face and hear his voice. I rely on him as I have never relied on anyone, and in correlation, my love for him is deeper than anything I have ever experienced.

    It’s not easy and fun all the time. You can read about parts of our journey on this blog, and it’s one of the reasons that I continue writing about us. There are tears, debates, and angry words sometimes. We both have moments of resistance at different junctions, and some days, we show up to our daily talk with a heavy heart. But we show up. Every single damn day, we show up to be Master and slave, partners and lovers. I have never felt so challenged and so loved, and I wouldn’t want it any other way.

    Happy Anniversary, Daddy.


  10. Kayla Lords is here!

    October 11, 2014 by Heather Cole

    Today we’re chatting up Kayla Lords: mother, author, sex blogger, and kinkster, not to mention a hundred other titles, including submissive to a loving Dominant. This is the time when we’re voting for our favorite sex bloggers, and I admit that I’m constantly lured to Kayla’s blog, A Sexual Being, on a regular basis. That woman knows some kinky fuckery. Let’s give Kayla a warm Vagina Antics welcome!

    Heh. Warm vagina. I SAID IT!

    ~A Further Note from Heather~

    Kayla sent me the press kit for her latest book released today, Bound by Love, which included two excerpts. I posted one of them, towards the bottom of this post, but the second one… well, it was so smokin’ hot that I had to leave my computer for some *cough* alone time. That girl can write. *fans self* 

     

    Heather:  On your bio, you hint at your sexual rebirth which happened in the aftermath of a divorce. You’re a mother of two as well. Nikki and I can both relate to that second-half-of-life overhaul. Can you tell us a little more about your sexual transformation?

    Kayla Lords: Ok, first of all…mmmmmm, warm vagina, mmmmmm. Sorry, I had to bask in the idea of that for a moment. Now, down to business.

    It happened slowly and yet, at the same time, it happened all at once. I have lived in my head for my entire life, always thinking, planning, processing, and making up stories. Since puberty hit, a lot of the stories in my head were sexual. While I was married, I figured it was normal to constantly fantasize about men other than my husband. During the divorce, I was basically an asexual hermit. I didn’t think much about sex, and God knows, I didn’t worry about it. Once I received the divorce papers, I went a little wild. I hooked up with a man 20 years my senior who only wanted weekly booty calls (which was fine with me). After that ended, I met up with an old flame from high school. He and I were SO wrong for one another (hindsight being what it is) but he’s the one who pointed out that I never climaxed with him. He could tell I was close, but I always held back. (The first guy didn’t notice or didn’t care.) He told me point blank that my lack of orgasms was a turn off.

    I was crushed. I had real (albeit fleeting) feelings for him, and I enjoyed sex with him. I turned the problem over in my head for a while. I’d been blogging in the vanilla world for a year or so, and I’d learned that I could blog my way through my problems, thoughts, concerns, and even obsessions. I decided I wanted to figure out how to have an orgasm (since as far as I could tell, I’d never had one) and that I would write about it because I knew I couldn’t possibly be the only one with this problem. I knew I couldn’t use my own name in case I was found by people in my professional world. I also decided I would use this opportunity to get the sexual stories in my head out of my head.

    From there the rest is sort of history. The more I “practiced” masturbating and learning how to let go enough to have an orgasm and the more I wrote and read erotic fantasies, the more comfortable I became with my own sexuality. Now, I forget that the me that lives in the vanilla world isn’t really supposed to talk about kinky sex and masturbation in public. (Oops!)

    Heather:  Is your story, The Adventures of Sir and Babygirl, similar to your journey with your current partner and Dominant? When did you know that you were kinky?

    Kayla Lords:  The identifying details are fairly different but yes, the story is the tale of John Brownstone (aka Southern Sir) and myself. I base Sir’s emotions on what I see from my own Sir/Daddy and what I want him to feel and experience, too. But every emotion that Babygirl has is something I’ve felt at some point – even if the situation is completely different. Writing the books is both cathartic and extremely difficult. I feel like I open myself up even more than I do in my own blog within the book. Writing and then publishing the books makes me feel very vulnerable.

    I had an inkling I might be kinky (even though I didn’t know enough to use that term) when I was still blogging under my real name. I was lurking on all kinds of erotic blogs – refusing to comment but soaking it up. Once I started my blog and created my pen-name, I was free to read and comment where I wanted to. When that happened, a whole new world opened up to me. I loved reading blogs and stories that were BDSM in nature, especially Dominance and submission. I found myself on Tumblr staring at the most extreme photos, squirming in my chair, blushing, and looking over my shoulder to make sure no one could see what I was doing (note: it was midnight in my own home and my kids were asleep!). I’d only been blogging a few months when I finally admitted to myself and the world I might be submissive. When I met my first Dominant and had that experience, there was no doubt. I finally gave myself permission to admit that I like rough sex, I like pain, and I need to submit to a Dominant. The rest since then has been like going to Disney World and trying to decide what ride to go on first – I want to try it all (well, almost all).

    Heather:  What inspired you to start Masturbation Mondays, and how can bloggers/authors get involved?

    Kayla Lords:  Masturbation Monday, as a thing, came about because I’m obsessed with two things – people getting off and my website’s statistics. I get a rush when someone tells me my words made them masturbate or have sex (or at least want to do those things). I like writing something so hot I turn myself on, too. These days, I don’t masturbate without permission and I rarely ask because that’s taken care of for me – when He wants to. LOL

    But I also noticed that the days with the highest views on my site are on Mondays – when I use the hashtag #MasturbationMonday. And the posts with the most views throughout the week were usually Monday posts. I knew it wasn’t because I’m that good of a writer. I knew it had to be something about the hashtag itself. I worked with John (aka SouthernSir) to create a site for Masturbation Monday and admittedly copied a lot of how Marie Rebelle formats Wicked Wednesdays each week (with slight differences).

    The idea is to give writers and bloggers a way to showcase their hot posts plus a reason to blog. The biggest lament from writers and bloggers is that they don’t know what to blog about – a foreign concept to me because I have too much content in my head and not enough time to write, lol. To participate, all anyone has to do is write a post about masturbaton or a post so erotic it makes someone want to masturbate, add a Masturbation Monday badge and link to their post, and then go to the Masturbation Monday weekly post and add their link. I encourage authors to join in by sharing a hot excerpt from a current release – but the focus needs to be on the content not just on selling a book.

    In return, I spend time each week promoting the Masturbation Monday site to writers and readers, and then I go through each post every Monday. I read, comment, and share each post with my own followers on Twitter and Facebook using the hashtag that started it all. I want people to discover new writers. I want writers to get new readers. And, above all, I want to get more people hot and bothered and wanting to masturbate. (For the record, the only “downside” to reading 10-15 erotic posts in one sitting is that I’m decidedly squirmy by the end with no permission to take care of business.)

    Nikki:  As a mother of two young ones, how do you balance parenting, writing, and your kinky lifestyle? Especially since you now live with your Sir.

    Kayla Lords:  The hardest balance is between writing and parenting. The kinky lifestyle isn’t hard at all to balance except that there’s never any time for the really kinky stuff. Let’s start with being kinky and parenting.

    I get this question a lot and I figure some of your readers wonder too (even though both of you do an excellent job of balancing it, from my perspective). Here’s the deal, y’all. I don’t crawl around on the floor, wear a collar, or flash my boobs when my children are around. That’s all private stuff – just like vanilla sex is private and shouldn’t be done in front of children. What my kids see is that I’m respectful to my Dominant, that I take care of him, and when he asks me to do something, I do it. If I disagree, it’s always in a respectful manner. They have no clue they’re seeing kink or a different lifestyle – they see two adults being courteous, respectful, loving, and even playful with one another. The rest is kept behind closed doors or for those really rare occasions when he and I are home but the boys aren’t. We’re already talking about the possibility of the boys visiting their grandparents for part of the summer when school lets out. If that happens, no one will hear from us for weeks because I’ll most likely be trussed up, ball-gagged, and strapped to the Hitachi just to make up for all the times we can’t be kinky.

    Ok, parenting and writing? Oh holy hell, that’s a major balancing act. In order to really write and feel good about it, I have to have complete silence so I can get lost in the words and simply create. I get about three hours a day of uninterrupted time to work – and unfortunately, most of that is spent on the vanilla writing that pays the bills. I have created elaborate ways to get my kinky writing done. Video games are my best friend, and I’ve taught my oldest how to get himself a drink and a snack. On Sunday’s, John plays interference for a couple of hours while I sit down and schedule all my blog posts for the week. After dinner, I might sit and write if it’s something I’ve told myself has to be done immediately – guest posts, contributor stuff, etc. In the afternoons, I might get a few hundred words written, but not even that if even one child is feeling rowdy or ornery. Case in point, answering these questions took 45 minutes longer than I thought it would because of homework, juice, Mario, and kids being kids. Next year will be easier because both boys will be in school all day.

    Nikki:  What is your long term vision for Kayla Lords, author and sex blogger extraordinaire?

    Kayla Lords:  Hmmm, long term? Well, I’d like to actually deserve the title “extraordinaire,” lol. I really enjoy writing and sharing my view of D/s, my erotic thoughts, and all the rest. I can’t imagine that ending any time soon.

    As an author, I hope I’m able to write, publish, and sell enough books that it becomes a viable income. I’m not trying to make a million dollars – simply help pay the bills. Right now, I make so little as an author that I simply pump that little bit I get back into the few costs I have as a writer – graphics, covers, etc. I have plans (very long term) to attend conferences and learn from my fellow writers – and maybe one day share what I’ve learned, too.

    As a blogger? I’d like to help teach people about what D/s looks like in a loving relationship. I’d like to be able to show people that it’s not scary or weird or deviant to want what we want. I’d like to be a good representative to the outside world of what kink can mean. I’m constantly seeking out writing opportunities (free and paid) to write about BDSM for different audiences. I am interested in speaking about it within the lifestyle – not to instruct someone on how to be submissive but to let them know that it’s not just fantasy, it’s real, and this is what it is from my perspective. I also want to help build a community of writers and readers who can learn from one another while still turning each other on.

    As a sexual submissive who lives and creates in the online world, I think I have a responsibility to the D/s community to be a good steward for the community. There’s so much really bad, dangerous information out there that those of us who write about the lifestyle have a duty to share the truth as we know it and to be examples for people. I hope, long term, I can continue to do that, but possibly on a larger scale.

    Nikki:  What are your thoughts on BDSM erotica’s staying power?

    Kayla Lords:  I think BDSM erotica is here to stay. As with anything, it’s popularity will ebb and flow. I’m not a huge fan of 50 Shades of Grey but even I can admit that it brought a lot of people to the lifestyle that might never have otherwise realized what BDSM is. I don’t mean the posers, fakes, and abusers (they were out there already, BDSM just gives them temporary cover until they’re outed). I mean the people who thought their kinky desires were somehow wrong or deviant, that there was something wrong for them for being who they are. There are always going to be people who enjoy some degree of kink – even if they don’t identify as kinky. There will always be people who see BDSM as a forbidden fruit – making it that much more tantalizing. Because of that, BDSM erotica will always be around in some form or fashion – just like it was before 50 Shades debuted. In a couple of years when the 50 Shades frenzy dies down, it’ll be something else, but there will always be someone writing about BDSM somewhere. Hell, I might still be writing kinky shit when I’m 90. You never know!

    Warm, squishy boob hugs to both of you for letting me come play in your freaky corner of the world today! And for giving me a reason to both read, write, and think the words “warm vagina.” Hugs, kisses, and boob flashes to you and all your readers!

     

    Congratulations, Kayla, on your latest release! I thoroughly enjoyed the first Sir and Babygirl story, so I’m super excited to read the next in the series. Thanks so much for talking with us today!

    Click below, y’all, and pick up your copy today!

    Bound_By_Love_cover__Finished (2)

     

     

     

    In the second set of adventures, Sir and Babygirl’s relationship, built on a mutual love of kink and a need for the dominance and submission lifestyle, must move forward or stagnate. Can Babygirl set aside her fears of heartbreak? Will Sir convince his sweet submissive that he loves her completely? And just how many erotic adventures can these two get into as they navigate their growing relationship?

    Find out in the sequel to The Adventures of Sir and Babygirl. This time, Sir and Babygirl are Bound by Love.

    Purchase Links:

    Amazon US: http://amzn.to/YifPW5

    Amazon UK: http://amzn.to/1rz6tku

    Barnes & Noble: http://bit.ly/1CG6zds

    Smashwords: http://bit.ly/ZgNxwb

    All Romance:  http://bit.ly/1xj8vWn

     

    Excerpt:  

    The door bell rang. Sir! Katie felt a mixture of relief and stress.

    “I’m so glad you’re here. But I’m so sorry too. The place is a mess. Olivia’s had one tantrum after the other this after – no nap, which is all my fault – and I don’t even have dinner started. I know you expected some-.”

    Sir placed one finger over Katie’s lips, silencing her. “Can I get in the front door, please, Babygirl?”

    Katie nodded. At the sound of Sir’s voice, she felt a sense of peace fill her. One wish had been granted at least. She was his Babygirl from the first word. He smiled as a look of calm washed over her face. Sir replaced his finger with his mouth, kissing her softly.

    Babygirl looked into his eyes, leaning in for more. Chuckling to himself, Sir wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close, and devoured her mouth with his. Her lips parted, her tongue meeting his. He lapped at her tongue. Sharp teeth teased her lips. She responded with her entire body, wrapping her arms around his neck, standing on tip-toe, as if she would crawl inside of him if she could.

    Sir pulled away, smiling at Babygirl’s swollen lips. He gazed into her eyes, taking in the distant look that replaced the stressed one that greeted him moments before. Taking her hand, he lead her into the living room.

    Sir whistled between his teeth. “Damn. I didn’t realize one little girl could do so much damage.”

    With a slightly calmer tone than before, Babygirl recounted the afternoon’s adventures. As she spoke, tension filled her voice again. Sir snaked his hands over the back of her head, into her hair, and pulled. Her voice trailed off into a whimper.

    “Shhhhh, sweet girl. Sir is here now. We’ll deal with this together, ok?” She nodded, squirming and fidgeting. “Is something wrong, Babygirl?”

    She blushed a deep red. “You make me squirmy, Sir, when you do that.”

    “Do what, Babygirl?” He didn’t hide the amusement from his voice. “This?” He gripped her hair tighter and pulled her head back until she was looking into his eyes. She nodded, whimpering again.

    “You like that, huh? I’ll have to remember that for later.” Sir released his grip on her hair. “Now, let’s deal with the situation at hand, shall we? Can Olivia come downstairs?”

    Babygirl sighed. “I can’t leave her up there all night, I guess. Although finding some gypsies to sell her to isn’t the worst idea ever, either.” Sir tipped his head back as he laughed, long and loud.

     

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