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Posts Tagged ‘kinky sex’

  1. Golden Showers: Two Perspectives

    March 12, 2014 by Heather Cole

    When it comes to watersports (Urban Dictionary definition: “In BDSM terminology, refers to sensual or erotic play involving bodily fluids, typically urine, saliva, and less commonly, blood. Considered ‘edge-play’…”) Nikki has had more experience than me, and she has written about her good times with Mr. K on Vagina Antics. When I entered the BDSM lifestyle, urine used as a facet of play time didn’t hit my radar. Not in a oh-this-is-so-gross-I’ll-never-do-it way, but more like I didn’t know it was a thing. In fact, Nikki didn’t discuss her water games with me until she was ready to write her blog post. My reaction was “you did WHAT? Of course you should write about it!” And that was my first exposure to erotic play involving pee. We can all blame Nikki Blue.

    We’re writing about both our perspectives today, because they’re so different. We both have fun with watersports but in different ways. I was going to make a joke about y’all reading in the “splash zone” but never mind. I’ll keep it classy.

    Enjoy!

     

    Heather

    On my list of kinks, urine was in the ‘I don’t have a fetish about this, but if you really want to I’m game to try something” category. It was never added to my play list, because I was having so many other firsts with D/s and my master. Urine first entered our conversation after a dominant friend of ours related a story where he used his sub hard and when she was crumpled on the floor in a sweaty, teary mess, he pissed on her then walked out of the room. I know what you’re thinking. Holy shit, that sounds so MEAN. For those masochists among us who were into a little humiliation, though, there was something poetic and degrading and… it gave me tingles. Not because of the physical feeling of being pissed on, or the actual urine, but the drama of the scene. There she lay, utterly depleted and used emotionally and physically, and the closing action was to be a receptacle of his piss. Afterwards he scooped her up, showered her, snuggled and told her how much he loved her. But in that moment, in that scrap of time in their universe, she was this thing to be used in whatever way he wished. From my perspective of masochist and slave, there was something terrible and beautiful in that like the best kind of dark fairy tale.

    After I related that anecdote, the element of watersports was assimilated into the fantasies of sir. He liked to brainstorm out loud, so I heard a lot of scenarios escape from that man’s mouth. Many of them freaked me the fuck out, but that was half the fun for both of us. He wouldn’t do most of them, because his intention wasn’t to damage me. Hurt me, yes, but not damage me. He began talking about pissing on me, and I listened, reacting appropriately when the ideas became extreme. And then one day as we showered together, he pissed on me. I didn’t have to look down to know he was doing it. He had this expression on his face that I could only describe as one that my cat had when I accidentally walked in on him using the litter box. The one that said he knew I’m watched him do his business and he could give two flying fucks. Sir had a similar attitude. Part of me wanted to act in a ridiculously squeamish way and whine about how GROSS it was even though it wasn’t disgusting at all. I mean, who didn’t pee in the shower on occasion? My reactions, though, were part of what sir looked for, so I sighed loudly and set about washing myself again in a resigned manner, ever the practical slave.

    The next time, though, I was sitting on the toilet after a particularly rough fucking. I still wore a sports bra and was taking a breather and relieving myself. Sir walked in the bathroom, as he often does (I’m prohibited from privacy so all doors were open when it was only the two of us), and ordered me to spread my legs wider. Next thing I knew, he was pissing into the toilet. I think my mouth dropped open, and before I could utter a word, he directed his stream over my breasts. I shrieked, NOT ON MY SPORTS BRA! He laughed and told me to get in the tub if I was going to complain.

    “I can’t believe you’re doing this!” I squealed and stepped gingerly into the shower.

    I was aware of the cooling piss dripping down my abdomen and the slight smell of ammonia. Part of me still couldn’t believe he was going to continue. The air felt cool in contrast to the hot urine, and I stood in partial shock as he pissed all over the front of my body. He smiled at my reaction then shook his head with mock chagrin.

    “What kind of girl stands still for a man to piss on her?”

    I felt my cheeks grow hot with shame. “A dirty girl,” I whispered.

    “Do you feel dirty?” he asked. I nodded, peeking at him through my lashes. The smile of satisfaction on his face made my heart beat harder.

    “How embarrassing for you” he replied.

    I was mortified and ashamed, and as soon as those two elements combined, I started to feel aroused. As sir watched me squirm, I wanted to fuck him again. Lips, fingers, tongue… I didn’t care. I was his dirty girl, the one he knew would do almost anything to please him. It was uncomfortable and the pee was starting to turn cold, but the look in his eyes as he watched my small humiliation made it all worth it. Eventually he helped pull off my bra and started the shower for me.

    “You’re such a good girl,” he said as he pulled the shower curtain closed. “Get cleaned up. I’m not done with you yet.”

    Nikki:

    Part of the beauty of my relationship with Mr. K is that we play with few limits. We’re open to trying most anything together and we are incredibly turned on by each other’s scent and body fluids. His slow licks down my sweat-soaked back while he fucks my ass make my head spin, he nearly orgasms when I spit in his mouth, and precum leaks from the tip of his cock when he cleans me with his tongue after I pee. And after everything, he kisses me long and deep, sharing what he loves with me. He’s always said he would never do anything to me that would keep him from kissing me afterward. Yep, he’s a keeper.

    I’ve written here and there about our foray into Watersports, so I won’t bog y’all down with the same warm, wet details, but I will say I still haven’t been able to successfully pee on Mr. K due to my bladder’s performance anxiety issues. And it’s something I desperately want to do for him. I can pee when we shower together and while sitting on the toilet with his fingers between my legs, but for now, peeing ON him seems to be a hard limit for my bladder. Fucking bladder.

    Like Heather, I get peed on as we shower too. Every time. But the difference between us is that I expect it, want it even. It’s a totally natural act for us and I love the feeling of the warm fluid streaming over my body. I watch as it flows and the look of pleasure on Mr. K’s handsome face as it does is a super huge bonus.

    With that having been said, it’s not often I’m able to say something that surprises Heather, but when it comes to my Watersports tales, I leave her in a constant state of WHAAAAAA? And I confess I kinda like it. I may have even rendered her speechless when I told her Mr. K had peed on my face, boobs, and in my mouth. I think she was pretty shocked when I didn’t find it gross, humiliating, or feel dirty, but that’s not how it was intended to be received. Mr. K would be horrified at the thought of making me feel that way. He pees on me because to him, drenching me with his body fluid is a wonderfully intimate expression. It’s a moment of sharing I will always welcome. Every golden, salty drop.


  2. Pony Rides $10 aka Heather Rides a Sybian

    August 14, 2013 by Heather Cole

    The kinky Wild West Festival was held at the private farm where I ran in the spring Slave Hunt. I fretted about my last minute “costume” which consisted solely of a white Mexican-ish patterned dress and my hair in braids. But every time I worried that I wasn’t wearing the appropriate thing to a kink event, I saw bared breasts and dangling cocks in the first five minutes of my arrival and I was instantly reassured. The festival centered around cabins that sat in a semicircle around a big barn that featured an open play space on the second floor. Imagine a kinkster’s dream play/torture space fronted by a Wild West facade. There was a cathouse and a jail, and people had set up tables in the center full of various games and services they offered for sale.

    The Sybian pony rides, offered by Dancer and his partner D, were held upstairs in the cathouse and happened to be one of the few buildings that had sweet, sweet air conditioning. The Sybian sat beneath a winch, a pair of leather cuffs dangling from the ceiling. The setup wasn’t intimidating, but the Sybian occupied the center of the room. There would be no hiding once I got on it, and this thought inspired an odd mix of anxiety and excitement in my gut. I couldn’t tell if I was thrilled or appalled, and maybe it was both things that got my juices flowing.

    I wasn’t uncomfortable with public sex. My inner exhibitionist adored an audience, but the Sybian was uncharted territory. And to make my anxiety a little more present, I was at the tail end of my period. Typically my period rarely stopped my sex life. However, public masturbation on someone else’s equipment struck me as the wrong place to be during Auntie Flo’s visit. I was barely bleeding, but when I orgasmed (and I typically orgasmed A LOT) I tended to gush blood like a crime scene. As much as I wanted to please LH and ride the Sybian, I was also anxious about my body betraying me and grossing out/offending everyone within sight. LH, being a practical dude, asked Dancer point blank if it mattered that I was on my period. Dancer, also being a practical dude, said that it didn’t matter to them. So there ya go. Decision made. Heather was going to have her pony ride.

    I knew I was feeling nervous, because I was obsessing about logistics. Did I want a medium cock or large? Slender or beer can size? Did I wear my dress or go naked? Everyone was being accommodating so that I would feel comfortable, but that only served to contribute to my unease. What would have helped the most were specific commands, but I was too jittery to articulate that need. Finally I gave a mental ‘fuck it’ and stripped. A condom and a lot of lube went on the dildo jutting up from the barrel of the Sybian which was covered in sheets of plastic wrap. Just before I was clipped into cuffs, D offered me a blindfold.

    Part of the rush of the experience would be knowing that I was being watched. I didn’t want to stare at the people around me, but I wanted to be aware of them. At that point, people had begun trickling into the room to see what was happening (and I think air conditioning was a big part of the allure). It took me a second to realize that I was the show, but I was distracted from my nervousness by Dancer’s instructions to sit on the Sybian.

    There was no graceful way to get on the thing, but that could been because I was a newb and had a bad case of the butterflies. I threw my leg over the barrel, but it would take an experienced user to get one’s vagina on the dildo at the exact same time. I almost yelled BULLSEYE when I finally got it right. Dancer adjusted the barrel up and down until I was sitting with my weight fully on it. I made sure that I had some wiggle room, though, so I could lift up on my toes if the sensations got too intense and I needed a breather.

    LH’s hands were warm on my back as Dancer dialed up the Sybian. My fears fell away as I felt the familiar pre-orgasm sensations build in my body. If there was one thing I knew how to do in life, it was how to orgasm. The Sybian felt like my best vibrator on steroids, its speed going from 0 to 100 in a heartbeat. If I shifted my hips forward, my clit was vibrated directly as the dildo twirled inside me. I felt a burst of adrenaline and was on the verge of my first orgasm within minutes, and then suddenly Dancer cut the power. He edged me a second time as all the sadists in the room laughed at my disappointed expression. LH said, “that never gets old.” Damn sadists.

    Finally the teasing stopped, and Dancer got down to business. I’ve been trained to announce my orgasms, and that rule didn’t change in public. I also swear like a sailor when I’m coming. I’m not entirely certain what I shouted as wave after wave of pleasure washed through me, but I should probably go to confession.

    At one point both Dancer and D pinched my nipples while LH caned me from behind. Beautiful pain washed through me, tinged with the pressure of another growing O. Dancer grabbed my chin to make me hold his gaze, and an orgasm bloomed in the intimate space between us. LH hit me on the ass again with a wooden slapper, the stinging pain boosting me towards a double orgasm. I was undone in orgasmic increments; all I knew was the glorious pain delivered by my owner behind me, the sensation of being impaled and stimulated at the same time between my legs, and the power of the man holding the dial in front of me. I felt hands stroking and pinching and hurting as my body quivered and my heart soared on the wings of endorphins.

    I got a break from the intensity when D offered me a cold bottle of water. I almost cried from relief, and she fanned me as I gulped down the icy liquid. My hands remained cuffed, my torso stretched between the winch and the Sybian. I adored the glorious torment of being a pleasure toy for other hands and other wills. Although I benefited most directly from the pleasure of the Sybian, it was not within my control. And that’s what got me off the most. I didn’t care who saw me being played like some sexual instrument. In fact, my experience was amplified because I was able to share it. Perhaps it was a function of ego, but I loved knowing that my scene was witnessed. I felt joy and lust in abundance, and in the heat of all those orgasms, I wanted to share them with the world.

    Afterwards LH cuddled me as my brain eventually returned to my body. He called me his glorious whore as I smiled contentedly against his chest. Several people approached me  to offer thanks for the great scene and new spank bank material, and I was thrilled to know that others genuinely enjoyed it. One of my favorite comments came from a fellow submissive. She said that it was obvious that I had been trained well, because I announced my orgasms and thanked the Tops in the scene for them. (When I was able to think, that is.) I rode the glow of my scene for the rest of the day, and neither the intense heat or a brief visit to the Wild West jail managed to diminish it.

     


  3. Late Nights

    July 26, 2012 by Heather Cole

    I stared through the glass wall of the office at the harbor below, the lights from the tourist cruises dotting the dark water like fireflies. The usual clatter from the company was silenced and the floor deserted. I clutched a pile of file folders to my chest as a reminder of why I was in his office. The lamp on the desk beside me offered a small pool of light against the bulky shapes of office furniture and bookshelves. I heard the door shut behind me with a soft click and then caught a whiff of cologne. My skin twitched when Jai touched me, seconds before I heard his voice in my ear.

    “Turn around,” he said with only a trace of an accent.

    Butterflies erupted in my stomach, and I grinned at the dark horizon. “Make me.”

    He growled something incoherent and with one hand released the clip that held my chignon in place. His fingers scraped against my scalp as he grabbed a handful of my hair while his other hand slowly wandered down my ribcage to my waist. His fingers dug into my side as he pulled me against him, and I could feel his erection pressed against me through the fabric of my pencil skirt.

    “Are you saying that you don’t want to look at me? I’m amenable to that.”

    Jai pushed me towards the desk, and I stumbled in my heels, dropping the files to the floor so I could catch my balance. I heard the metallic clink of a belt being loosened and then a zipper sliding on its metal teeth. My heartbeat ratcheted up with anticipation.

    I attempted to turn around then but he caught me with a fistful of hair. Slowly, inextricably, he pulled me to the desk, allowing me enough of an angle so that I could see his grin and the charcoal pinstripe of his designer suit with my peripheral vision. My palms were slick with sweat against the smooth wood, the buttons of my blouse poking into my sternum. My eyes fluttered shut when I felt his palm brush my thigh.

    “Tell me,” he demanded.

    I bit my lip and squirmed until my ass grazed his pants. He laughed and shifted his grip to the back of my neck. I had exactly three seconds to wonder what he was planning.

    The sting of his hand against my ass stole my breath, but I welcomed the pain.

    “Tell me.”

    He yanked my skirt up and swung again. The force of his palm against my flesh inched my body along the desk.

    “Say it.”

    Another hit.

    My panties were drenched, the warmth and pain of his hands driving my need. Drawing a deep breath through my nose, I shook my head and clamped my lips tight. I wanted to relish the power of withholding as long as possible. I waited for another blow but none was forthcoming. Instead he pulled down my underwear, his long fingers reaching for my swollen clit.

    “You know what I can do to you,” he murmured, “what we can do together. Two words and you can have it all.”

    His clever fingers stroked closer to the lips of my vagina.

    “Say it or I leave you here.”

    He held me like a butterfly pinned to a mat. In that critical moment of overwhelming desire and need, I craved both the reward and the pain. In the end, though, I always gave him what he wanted.

    “I’m yours,” I whispered.

    He laughed again, because he had never doubted it.


  4. The Meaning of Kinky

    March 2, 2012 by Heather Cole

    This post is dedicated to my friends, new and old, who have helped me, through their own journeys, see mine more clearly. Thank you.

     

    When I originally conceived of this post, I planned on starting with a basic vocabulary of kinky terminology. Nikki and I toss around kinky words like popcorn, but for much of our readership, there’s confusion about what it all means. In response, I made a page with a list of basic terms AND some resources that I found very helpful when I was figuring out what kinky meant to me. You can find it here.

    So why did my writing plans change? Well, because this morning I’m going for a biopsy. It will be a ten minute procedure at the doctor’s office, but the implications of what it means have been impacting my life for weeks. I’m not afraid. I know that whatever the doctors find or don’t find, I’ll deal with it. I’m strong and healthy and I have a great support network. The catalyst that spurred my spate of introspection was a comment made by my mother. Under the guise of caring and concern, she implied that the anomaly in my pap smear was a result of my lifestyle choices. I love my mother, and we’re very close, so these words were like a sledgehammer to my heart.

    Not so long ago, my mother asked what “being kinky” meant. I believe I gave her the worst explanation ever, because she didn’t want to know specifically what it meant to me. She didn’t want to know what got her daughter off, about the leather collar and the floggers and the man who dominated her. She wanted a generalized description, so I stumbled through an explanation of what I knew other kinksters enjoyed. It was a disaster all around, and I ended the call knowing that for the first time in my life, my mother was afraid for me. Afraid of my choices.

    This is the kick-in-the-nuts truth about being kinky: THERE IS NO HARD AND FAST DEFINITION OF WHAT BEING KINKY MEANS. There are as many versions of kink as there are stars in the sky. What does it for me may not do it for you. And just because we may be different, I would never say that you are or aren’t kinky. I’m beginning to agree with the Dom that Nikki referenced. Why call it kink? My sexual practices are perfectly “normal” from my perspective.

    This acceptance is sometimes hard to find in other people. It’s even harder to find within ourselves. That’s what I’ve been grappling with over these past weeks, my mother’s judgment only brought it to my attention. As much progress as I’ve made with accepting who I am as a submissive pain slut, that definition is evolving and it’s uncomfortable to feel uncertain. There’s no denying the fact that I’m a different woman today than I was even three months ago.

    I resist labels, because they’re stagnant. They work as a general, all-purpose shortcut in a conversation, but they’re not dynamic or flexible. I call myself a slave, but I have more freedom than many other submissives do. Other Doms wouldn’t tolerate my bratty mouth or my insistence at independence, but M says that I’m perfect for him. I’m a powerful human being whether I’m negotiating a writing contract, taking my child to the park or kneeling at my Master’s feet. No matter what I call myself or the toys I use, no matter who I choose to fuck and how I choose to fuck them, my sexuality is beauty, and power and joy. I engage my partners with love and respect, and I try to give as much as I receive.

    I don’t know if my mother and I will ever talk about kink again. I will answer her honestly if she asks, because I know myself and I will always try to speak my truth. Calling me kinky doesn’t really explain anything except to say that I’m different. And sweeties, that difference gives me some earth-shattering orgasms.