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  1. Ask Heather: Where Are All the Anal-Loving Ladies?

    November 12, 2013 by Heather Cole

    I have a question for you that I don’t quite know how to ask, so I will be as polite as I can.

    You are a rare treasure of a woman, and as a man that loves anal sex I have been hard pressed to find a woman that even remotely enjoys it. It’s usually seen as taboo, or nasty even though I know all of the ways to keep it sanitary. So here is my question. Are women who enjoy anal really so elusive, or am I not looking in the right places? I admit, even men’s gully holes are starting to look good to me at this point.

    ~Dark Passenger

     

    Dear Dark Passenger:

    Thank you very much for the politely worded question and the compliment. I appreciate both. Now let’s talk anal sex.

    Finding a person who shares your fantasies or kinks can feel like trying to find a needle in a haystack sometimes. And I’ve never understood why people place anal sex in the taboo category or see it as scandalous. In my eyes, anal sex is a part of regular, vanilla sex. CRAZY, I know. There are other women out there who feel the same <points at Nikki> and it will take patience to find them. But I know that they’re out there. I’m absolutely positively sure that they exist. Wearing a scarlet ‘AS’ on our shirts would be helpful, I know, but since many of us are undercover taking-it-in-the-ass lovers, patience is more practical. Keep the faith, Dark Passenger!

    Have you tried looking at a fetish site? Anal play is popular with many kinksters. In fact, there are anal groups that you can join to discuss your mutual adoration of ass play. But even more important than zeroing in on a certain website or concentrating all your focus on a woman who loves anal sex, I think it’s most important to find someone willing to explore it. Sometimes all it takes is someone willing to try something new or explore a concept again with a new partner. I’m speaking from first hand experience, because I didn’t always love anal.

    In college my first anal sex experience was super hot. It was like discovering a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow–unicorns and glitter abound! But many of the men I later dated didn’t even broach the subject of anal. Eventually I married, and I entered a nine-year anal sex dry spell. My ex-husband proclaimed that as far as he was concerned, I didn’t possess an asshole and he thought it was disgusting to even contemplate touching a sphincter during sex. So like I said, I went a looooooong time without anal sex. After my divorce, when I re-entered the dating world, anal sex became a hot topic again especially when I began dating kinky people. The challenge was that for a variety of reasons, anal sex had become painful for me.

    This is the part where I think finding a willing woman can be as great as finding one that is an anal whore (and I mean that as a huge compliment) right out of the box. When I started dating the man who is now my Dominant and master, I realized that if I wanted to please him in all the ways that I could, I would have to find a way to enjoy anal sex again. Sure, I could bite my tongue and take it up the ass like a good girl, but as much as sir enjoys anal sex, I knew I’d be having it a lot. Luckily for both of us, my soulmateclone Nikki Blue published a fantastic guide to anal sex and I started doing my homework.

    I learned a lot from Nikki’s guide, and sir and I have tried anal sex in different positions, with different lubes and under all sorts of conditions. Stairs are tricky. *cough* I’ve had some amazing anal sex again, but the biggest lesson I learned was that having a willing partner to explore new sexual territory is the most important component. Because as much as you think you know about a sexual topic, you could probably learn more. At least, that’s how it was in my case. All I needed was a little direction and a gentle push from sir. <snort> I’m totally restraining the cock jokes here. ANYWAY…

    It takes patience to find a willing partner, and then more patience as you explore anal sex together. Guides like Nikki’s are very helpful, and if you can show your partner that you’re willing to take it slow and that you’re focused on her enjoying the experience as much as you do, then I predict many pleasure filled times ahead of you. Don’t lose hope, Dark Passenger. We anal sex loving girls are out there. Keep in mind that sometimes we don’t realize how great it can be, but we’re willing to try if you are.

    Here’s a song to .

    Hugs,

    Heather

     

    Category Anal Sex | Tags: ,, | 3 Comments

  2. Confessions of an Anal Whore

    September 9, 2013 by Nikki Blue

    In my defense, it was Britt’s fault. All of it. She knew the heavens would open and a chorus of angels would sing when she tweeted the photograph of Anal Whore undies. She knew I would be blinded by tears of joy as I said, “they’re so beautiful.” She knew she was sparking a mad mission to find the aforementioned Anal Whore undies. She also knew I would not rest until Anal Whore was written across my ass. She knew it ALL.

    See? Totally Britt’s fault.

    The hunt began immediately. I scoured every corner of the internetz for them, but Google was defiant, refusing to give me what I’d asked for. Instead it mocked me with a plethora of links that would take me to anal whore porn, anal whore wearing underwear porn, and anal whore smoking wearing underwear porn. Google hates me, obviously. Mr. K even joined in on the search because hellooooo, ANAL WHORE UNDIES. He looked hard. Heh…hard. *ahem* Even though I’d be willing to bet I totally won in the “Jesus Fucking Christ” department.

    Exhausted and dismayed, I decided designing my own was the only way I would own a pair of Anal Whore undies. I scanned Cafe Press for undies– *blech* I perused Zazzle– what do you mean you don’t sell undies? But then I found them, I created them, and hysterical laughter ensued. Sort of like Dr. Frankenstein, but with WAY better hair, according to Heather.

    A few days later, I ran past the teen to my bedroom, ignoring her inquiry about the small package I clutched to my chest. I locked the door behind me and kicked my running shoes off as I tore open the plastic with my teeth, dumping my new Anal Whore undies on the bed. I couldn’t help but squeal with delight when I saw them. They were pretty, they were pink, and they were mine.

    <more hysterical laughter>

    Finally naked except for my Anal Whore undies, I set up the tripod at the end of my bed and shoved the stacks of laundry I’d been folding out of view.

    Mom?

    What?

    I need those pillowcases.

    Now? You need them NOW?

    What are you doing?

    I’m working on, um, something. I’ll bring you the pillowcases later.

    I set the timer on the camera and lunged for the bed, stretching out into my best cat-like pose as I waited for the shutter to click. I knew it would be the first shot of at least 112, so I wasn’t terribly surprised when I’d only captured half of my ass in the frame. Hey, taking selfies is hard, y’all. I studied my error and calculated the corrections, moving the camera a little to the left. I set the timer and I dove again.

    Mom?

    *motherfucker*

    WHAT?

    We’re going to play basketball.

    Okay.

    When do you want me home?

    I don’t care.

    *click*

    Huh?

    Six.

    Okay, bye.

    *click*

    Logically, I should have waited until the kids were in bed to stage my home photo shoot, but because I have the patience of a gnat, there wasn’t a snowball’s chance in hell of that happening. And it was going well, sorta. But with the boys heading outside, there was a very real possibility they would spot me through the blinds, mostly naked and on my knees. I mean, I could have closed them, but the lighting was perfect. After a few (hundred) more shots, I got what I wanted and emailed the final photograph to Mr. K. I believe his immediate response was fuck me that’s hot, or something like that.

    Feeling all warm & fuzzy about the smile I’d put on Mr. K’s face and the bulge in his shorts, I redressed, put the camera away, and refolded the laundry on the bed. And when I took one last glance around the room before opening the door, it seemed as though I’d never been there, because I’m a ninja. But mostly because I’m anal. Heh…anal.

    Anal Whore
    Note to self: in the future, wash Anal Whore undies separate from the other household inhabitant’s laundry. <face palm>

     

    Category Anal Sex | Tags: ,, | 16 Comments

  3. Dear Ladies of Vagina Antics: what are your thoughts on ‘making love’?

    August 28, 2013 by Nikki Blue

    What’s your thought on the phrase ‘making love’? Do you ever ask someone to ‘make love to me’? & is it possible to “make love” anally? My girlfriend says no, as it’s a more submissive act, and raunchy. Great blog, thanks!
    craig

     

    Dear Craig:

    Neither Nikki nor myself knew that when we read your questions, you would be sparking a revelation. Although we’re soulmateclones and have talked about practically everything under the sun and have seen each other naked and, um… <cough> Anyway… Nikki didn’t know that I avoided using the term “making love.” BOOM! Revelation rendered. It was an unintentional attack of shock and awe. OK, so not much awe, but I know that Nikki gasped. Maybe once. But let me explain why I hate that phrase.

    I refuse to use the term “making love.” So much so that I’ve told the people I fuck that if they utter that phrase during our naked time I’m kicking them out of my bed. To me, the phrase “making love” conjures the poignant moment in the Romantic Comedy when the lights dim, the sweet music starts and couple shares a physical joining that somehow encompasses all their love and dreams and life’s purpose culminating in mutual orgasms timed precisely at the same time so that they think, breathe and feel a magical communion of body and soul. It’s a happily ever after moment that’s great for film and telling a story effectively. But it comes nowhere close to what I believe are realistic expectations in the bedroom.

    “Making love” seems to say that for sex to be emotionally significant, it must be tender and delivered in a gentle manner. I say bullshit. I also don’t want my partners to feel like every time we have sex it must be done in a romantic way in order to communicate that they have feelings for me. I don’t want Prince or Princess Charming in my bed. I want a real person and an authentic sexual experience for everyone involved.

    Instead of making love, I’m fond of saying “fuck.” In fact, I love to say fuck, and I love to fuck. I choose to use this word to describe the sex I have, because I feel that it best communicates the intensity of what I feel with my sexual partners. It’s a visceral emotional and physical interaction that leaves us breathless and as close as two (or three) people could be. Fucking can be tender and gentle or rough and slaphappy. In my vocabulary book, it’s a flexible word that can be used to describe all sorts of sexual configurations independent of gender and sexual preferences.

    In my humble opinion, the English language doesn’t have enough words to describe sexual intercourse. If the Inuit dialect has at least 53 words* to describe the nuances of “snow” then why can’t the English language have the same for “sex?” The fact of the matter is that there’s no inbetween word that lies between the romanticized, over-emotional ‘making love’ and the hard-hitting word ‘fuck.’ You’re either dressed as a knight and wooing your fair maiden to bestow her favor upon your codpiece or you’re backing her up against the wall and getting down and dirty with her. These are just two words that mean sex. What counts is how you and your girlfriend feel when you connect physically and emotionally in a sexual way. Call it fucking badminton if you like; what remains is that you love each other, right?

     

    Heather

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

    It’s true. I gasped when Heather confessed her strong dislike for the act of, and even the term ‘making love’. I may have even stuttered. I mean seriously, we’ve been besties for nearly three years now and we know everything about the other, OR SO WE THOUGHT.

    *ahem*

    We do know quite a bit about each other, though. Heather has a lifetime subscription to my Vagina Report, and I’ve seen her nekkid, a lot. But we had no idea we had such different views on making love. It truly was a revelation.

    A ‘sexelation’!

    Yes? Yes? Pfft, whatever.

    Katie Kamara said:

     

    “Love making is the matrimony of physical desire, spiritual elevation, and emotional alignment and synchronicity.”

     

    That’s some pretty heavy stuff, but let’s talk a little about ‘fucking’ before we dive into those deep waters.

    In the past, ‘fucking’ was an unemotional act for me. It was a no-strings, get your rocks off, get the fuck out of my bed kind of thing. My feelings on ‘fucking’ have changed greatly, though. ‘Fucking’ can be rife with emotion, but in my opinion, it fills a different, more primal need. And if love is part of the equation, it doesn’t disappear when fucking. I just think it’s channeled differently.

    ‘Making love’, however, is very different for me because of the elements of pure emotion involved. It fills the needs of my softer side.

    Yes, I have one. Shut up.

    Anyway, I never hesitate to ask, or even beg Mr. K to make love to me. I’m not afraid to admit I need moments of tenderness, or that I need to hear I love you in my ear. He needs those moments, too. He needs to feel my legs wrapped around him, holding him impossibly close. And then he needs to flip me over and fuck my brains out because it’s how we roll.

    To me, anal penetration is no different than vaginal penetration, really. Okay, there’s a whole lotta difference as far as holes are concerned, but the psychology of it is the same. While there are those who view anal sex only as an act of submission, or “raunchy” fucking, there are others, like me, who don’t limit its definition. Unlike the anus itself, the definition of anal play is flexible and can be molded to fit the ‘headspace’ of the moment. Anal sex can be whatever you want it to be. It can be the ultimate act of submission, it can be rough and raunchy, and it can also be the rawest form of making love.

    So the bottom line is yes, you can make love anally, which means your girlfriend is wrong. You can even tell her I said so. Just kidding. *I’m totally serious*

     

    Nikki

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

     

    David Robson. There really are 50 Eskimo words for ‘snow’. New Scientist. The Washington Post, 14 Jan. 2013. Web. 28 Aug. 2013. <http://articles.washingtonpost.com/2013-01-14/national/36344037_1_eskimo-words-snow-inuit>

    Category Sex | Tags: ,,, | 10 Comments

  4. Orgasm Evolution

    August 8, 2013 by Nikki Blue

    I discovered orgasms at a very young age. I had no idea what the delicious sensation was, but I knew I liked it. A lot. I eventually experimented, figuring out different ways to evoke the powerful waves of pleasure. Some were creative and the orgasms were exciting. Others were just weird and embarrassing to admit. I was fifteen before I was able to orgasm during sex, though. I realize that’s young, but I’d been sexually active for a year by then. Very active to be honest. But no one before the Bad Boy had the skill required or the time to invest in my orgasms. Okay, let’s be realistic for a minute. ‘Time’ is a luxury most teenage dudes don’t have when they’re inside a vagina. And since we’re being honest, the same goes for some dudes well into their twenties. AMIRIGHT, ladies?

    In my twenties, I toyed with most of the men I encountered. I took great pleasure in teasing them to the edge of orgasm until they begged me or fucked me. It was a win/win as far as I was concerned. The control I took from them made me feel powerful. I found it incredibly arousing and their orgasms were confirmation that I had played the game well. That strength was an illusion, though. It wasn’t real. The truth was I was full of invisible cracks. I was still reeling from years of manipulation and unwanted pain at the hands of the Bad Boy. Like a vampire, he fed on the power I gave him over me, eventually draining me dry. He took pleasure in hurting me knowing orgasmic euphoria would make me forget. And it did. Down the road, I found myself searching for that same control induced high, and if an orgasm didn’t happen, I shattered.

    I ignored the demons of my past and moved into a marriage that was destined for failure. Like my persona, my orgasms underwent a complete make-over. They were no longer multiple. They were no longer powerful, and they were no longer important to anyone but me. Give and take wasn’t a concept my ex husband understood in life or sex, and it quickly became a chore. The event was nothing more than an obligation to meet. It was boring and it was painfully predictable. I learned to fake my orgasms, poorly I might add. The sooner it was over, though, the sooner I could pull down my t-shirt and straighten my ponytail. I could turn the lights on again, clean up the wet mess between my legs, and resume watching whatever show I’d paused on TV.

    My demons eventually reminded me of their existence, and when they did, my marriage collapsed. I grew tired of suppressing them and called them out one by one. I faced them all, taking back the power I’d given them. That renewed strength helped me discover myself and my orgasms again.

    I say that I wasn’t looking for Mr. K when he found me, but then again, maybe I was and just didn’t realize it. He stimulated me, he captivated me, and he released a sexual freedom inside that I never knew I was capable of. I confess, though, the first time he pulled me off of him sans orgasm, I freaked out a little as whispers of past insecurities began to materialize. It didn’t matter that we’d fucked for hours and he’d already had two orgasms to my <checks spreadsheet> twenty-one. In my mind, I’d failed to get him off. He did his best to reassure me that nothing was wrong, that he loved making me orgasm and he didn’t always need to. According to him, just being inside me felt fucking amazing.

    I still wasn’t buying it.

    “It’s not about the destination,” he countered. “It’s about the journey.”

    What does that even mean?

    It took more than a few swallows to choke down my pride, but when I finally did, I was able to see what he meant by “journey.” For us, the journey is all of it. It’s fucking one minute and making love the next. It’s kissing and talking and laughing. It’s everything that makes the sex we have so fucking fantastic. The amazing orgasms are just a bonus along the way.

    I won’t lie and say my demons don’t try to trick me into giving them power from time to time. They totally do. But I’m stronger than they are now and I’ve learned how to manage them, mostly. My life and my orgasms are my own again. They’re no longer used to manipulate me and I no longer use them to gain control. The orgasms I have with Mr. K are unlike any I’ve experienced before. They’re intense, but they’re also honest, if that makes any sense outside of my head. There’s no confusion attached to them and there’s no hiding who I am holding them back. There is complete acceptance, flaws and all. And that’s pretty fucking awesome.

     

    Category Sex | Tags: ,, | 6 Comments

  5. Sex Isn’t a Bottle of Wine

    July 23, 2013 by Nikki Blue

    Over the years, I’ve often heard people say “sex, like fine wine, improves with age,” or some variation thereof. This statement is misleading, in my opinion. It implies improvement is automatic and that is far from the truth. Great sex takes work, and yes, technique can improve with practice, but I think it’s the ability to communicate our needs, and self-acceptance that work together to improve the sex we have. Add those factors to a shared sexual energy with the right partner and sweet baby Jesus…

    I made my share of mistakes in my twenties when it came to sex. I was sometimes cruel, using my sexuality as a means to replenish control, not caring how people were affected by my actions. I was too emotionally guarded, rarely letting anyone past the protective barrier I kept in place. I had no idea how to communicate well, and I didn’t understand its role in achieving great sex. I was also too quick to judge a person’s sexual prowess, laying fault of a less than stellar performance entirely on them, never shouldering any of the blame myself. I thought people just clicked sexually. Either you were compatible between the sheets or you weren’t. I was so fucking wrong.

    Sex was almost non-existent in my thirties and it didn’t magically improve the instant I turned the corner into my forties. It doesn’t work that way. I had to learn how to be happy with myself again before I could possibly be happy with someone else. This meant discovering I had the balls to take control of my life and breaking free of my unhappy marriage. Believe me when I say it was no cake walk. But I did it, and I made mistakes. Lots of them as I sifted through the pieces of my life, searching for the person I once was. I own the mistakes I’ve made, though, and I managed to see the pearls of wisdom among the wreckage.

    I’ve accepted that my body isn’t perfect. Realistically, whose is? Mine has been through a lot of changes in the last twenty years, though. I gained sixty-five plus pounds with each pregnancy, I’ve given birth by cesarean section twice, and fought hard to lose the baby weight. Then there’s my boob issues. My breasts are uneven because my implants need to be replaced. It’s a surgery I’m not looking forward to. And the latest age induced development is the delicacy of my va-jay-jay. Due to hormonal changes, too much exposure over the years to fragrance laced products, or who the fuck knows why, I have to use fragrance-free everything to keep it from screaming “what the FUCK?!” at me. But you know what? Skin sensitivity aside, I’m a forty-something mother of two. My body isn’t perfect, but it’s mine and I’m proud of it.

    Communication bridges the gap between good sex and bad sex. It’s not criticism and I no longer shy away from it. In fact, Mr. K loves when I tell him what I need because he wants to please me. His willingness is the reason I don’t hesitate to open my mouth in bed. Heh. Open my mouth…in bed. Get it? *ahem* Healthy communication isn’t one-sided. I didn’t automatically know how to please Mr. K just because I have a vagina. I listened and I learned. And when he tells me my left hand is getting lazy during a blow job, I don’t pout from hurt feelings. I reach up and twist his nipple. Hard.

    I’m not the same person I was in my twenties, (you’re welcome) or even my thirties, for that matter. I’m finally at peace with myself and I have an amazing man in my life who doesn’t care about the mistakes I’ve made, or judge the number of sex partners I’ve had. He loves everything that makes me me. Those are the primary reasons at forty-something, I’m having the best sex of my life. And as far as my sexuality outside of the bedroom goes, I’m slowly becoming aware of it with Mr. K’s nudging. But this time, I promise to harness it and only use it for the greater good. Swear. *snicker*

    Category Sex | Tags: ,, | 4 Comments

  6. Dear Nikki: How Much is Too Much?

    June 16, 2013 by Nikki Blue

    Dear Nikki,

    I have a really great group of friends who know I’m kinky. It’s an amazing feeling to finally be myself without worrying about what others think. My friends have been very supportive of my kinky endeavors and are very open about sex themselves. We love to sit around and talk about things that would make most people’s ears hurt, but lately when I bring up sex, one friend in particular changes the subject. The first few times it happened I thought I was reading too much into it. But now she clearly takes control of the conversation or clams up altogether and I feel like she’s judging me. Should I confront her about her attitude change?

    Baffled in Baltimore

     

    Dearest Baffled,

    Coming out of the kinky closet to your friends takes sizeable gonads, my kinkalicious friend, so let me give you a big high five for that brave moment. And I agree with you wholeheartedly. It is amazing when you feel safe enough to let your hair down among friends, sharing the parts of you that normally require a super secret password to unlock. It’s like you can finally breathe. This newly found freedom, however, comes with the responsibility of establishing boundaries that everyone is comfortable with.

    I remember the hot wave of relief that rolled through me the first time I divulged my kinky nature to my friends and they didn’t hunt me down like the village ogre wielding pitchforks and buckets of holy water. It was both terrifying and exhilarating, and to my surprise, a few of them unveiled their own little juicy box of lifestyle secrets. I no longer had to hide my kinky tendencies and that level of comfort is a fan-fucking-tastic feeling. So I empathize about wanting to spew the contents of your kinky wishlist to your accepting friends.

    It sounds like one of them, at least, has had her fill of your sexploits, and she may be trying to clue you into the need for a subject change by hijacking the conversation. I understand your focus may be on sharing every delicious detail of your kinky sexcapades with your friends and you may not be thinking about limits outside of a BDSM scene, but you need to keep boundaries in mind as they relate to friendships as well.

    Balance plays an important role in any type of relationship. It’s all about give and take, and if you try to make your sex life the primary topic of conversation with your friends, you’re doing all of the taking and none of the giving. And by giving I mean listening to what they have to say about their partners and what’s going on in their lives too. You’re assuming that everyone is interested in hearing the particulars of your kinky lifestyle, and I have a sneaking suspicion this assumption is what is making your friend uncomfortable. I highly recommend you put the brakes on the sexy talk, otherwise your friend may redraw the boundaries of your friendship to include less of you in her life.

    Have a heart to heart with your friend. Ask her what is bothering her and be prepared to listen, offering an apology if you feel it’s necessary. Don’t apologize for being who you are (never apologize for that), but for monopolizing the conversation and forgetting to listen. Then maybe smoke a peace pipe, slam a shot of tequila or whatever you agree on, and get back to the give-and-take that good friends experience. Don’t get me wrong though, if your audience is open to it, you can talk about group sex and slapping your partner’s cock until the cows come home. Just remember to ask what’s new in their lives, and maybe talk about the blowout BOGO sale going on at the grocery store. Or what a douchebag your best friend’s ex-husband is.

    See? It’s all about balance, baby.

    *hugs*
    Nikki

    Category Kinky Sex | Tags: ,, | 4 Comments

  7. Anal Orgasms Are Hard, Y’all

    June 7, 2013 by Nikki Blue

    I’ve pondered anal orgasms for days now and I’m no closer to knowing what to write about them than I am to receiving a shiny Mother of the Year award for my outstanding parenting skills. I’m tired and I’m frustrated, and all I can think about is how I’d sell one of my kids to a band of gypsies for a stack of buttermilk pancakes with boysenberry syrup, but I digress.

    I realize I’m struggling with this particular subject matter because despite how often Mr. K and I have anal sex, I’ve never actually experienced an anal orgasm. Sure I’ve had clitoral orgasms during our anal sexcapades, and the delicious sensation that shoots straight to my clit when Mr. K penetrates my asshole is wickedly intense. I haven’t orgasmed from anal stimulation though. And I really want to.

    Rumor has it the female anal orgasm occurs from indirect stimulation of the G-Spot through the vaginal wall, but science suggests the nerve endings that flood the anus move through the same nerve that activates the clitoris; the pudendal nerve. So which is true? Who the fuck knows. Finding concrete information regarding the female anal orgasm has been nearly as challenging as finding a lone silver sequin in a glitter factory. Even with my internet ninja skills. Most search results provide links to videos on porn sites and we all know that’s always a credible source. *eye roll* Some argue its existence altogether, saying the anal-o is nothing more than a sexy creation of orgasm mythology.

    I disagree with the naysayers though. They’re harder to find, but there are women who have had what seems to be the elusive anal orgasm. They can be found spouting their experiences with what is apparently the Super Bowl of orgasms on FetLife, message boards, and blogs. I’ve read in some cases where anal orgasms are so powerful women have passed out from them, gushed like a fire hydrant, or they were so overwhelmed with pleasure they were left shaking uncontrollably. I confess I’m totally down with that.

    Prostate orgasms are a different story though. The interwebs are damn near busting at the html with hard facts, benefits and techniques. Using diagrams, websites and books on the art of prostate pleasure tell us the gland is located one to two inches inside a man’s rectum toward the front of his body. And they tell us that we can give our men mindblowing orgasms by massaging the walnut shaped gland with our finger or a dildo. The first time I did this to Mr. K, he found the stimulation extremely pleasurable but when he said he felt like he was going to pee I stopped, worried I was doing it wrong. But they say it’s normal for the man to feel like he’s going to pee just before a prostate orgasm. Well, “they,” whoever you are, I’ll be testing this theory when Mr. K visits in a few days.

    We spent some time today talking about my anal orgasms, or lack thereof, and Mr. K asked if there is something we’re not doing right. I didn’t have an answer for him. But realistically, orgasm or not, how can something that feels so amazing be wrong? We’re not giving up on them though. We’ve vowed to dedicate ourselves to the worthy cause of discovering the almighty anal orgasm. You know, for science.

    Category Anal Sex | Tags: ,, | 11 Comments

  8. Call Me Deep Throat Jr

    June 1, 2013 by Heather Cole

    When you’re a collared and/or owned submissive, or a submissive in a long-term dynamic, there’s often talk about training. The training can range from a basic set of assumptions like “you will text me good morning and goodnight every day” to complex and formal protocols regarding anything from kneeling when the Dominant enters the room or setting the table a certain way for every meal. Although we call it training, it’s a lot like learning your partner’s preferences in any relationship. One difference is that in our dynamic, we have punishments established for when I fail to meet the rules. Because I can be damn cheeky on occasion.

    One of the items on our training list was learning to deep throat. When sir first broached the topic, I thought he was exaggerating. He had a tendency to voice his fantasies out loud, which I adored, but hearing him describe me as a “sword swallower” made me pause. Up until that point I had never really been confident with my blowjob skills in general, so imagining myself with his cock past my tonsils and down my throat seemed beyond the realm of possibility. Plus, I have the most sensitive gag reflex in the universe! (not hyperbole) I was well into my twenties before I could manage swallowing pills. Yes, my mama crushed them up in grape jelly for me so hush. Instead of voicing my incredulity that I thought sir had me confused with a carnival performer, I replied “thy will be done” in the most un-sarcastic tone I could muster. (Yes, I really said that.)

    The next day I woke up to an email with a list of links regarding deep throat techniques from sir. He’s very thoughtful like that. I read that there was a numbing spray popular with the porn industry, but I was more interested in managing my gag reflex naturally. This meant that every day I brushed my tongue with a toothbrush, moving side to side and further and further back along the muscle, to deaden the physical reflex. Did I gag? Oh yeah. But I kept doing it.

    When sir visited, he’d test my progress by crowding his fingers in my mouth or pulling my tongue. He began giving me my vitamins, his thick fingers pushing the pills back along my tongue as I tried to relax and breathe and not bite him. I started having flashbacks to my life growing up on my grandparents’ farm. Have you ever seen livestock de-wormed? Well, pilling your slave kind of looks like that. You hold their head, there’s a struggle, eyes roll, and water and spit goes everywhere. At least I didn’t stamp my pointy hooves all over sir’s bare feet. I mean, I was mostly domesticated after all.

    The other trick of deep throating was figuring out when to breathe. When the tip of his penis reached the back of my throat, my nasal passages immediately closed up. It was a natural part to my gag reflex. If sir was moving rapidly in and out of my mouth (face fucking me) then I could manage to breathe through my mouth with the movement of his cock. Going slow and deep was a different matter. Inhaling as I went down on his cock, opened up my throat. I could stay like that with him down my throat, but eventually I needed air.

    The worst part was gagging. I learned not to eat for several hours before I saw him, and then came the day where he was ready to put me to the test. Into the shower we went. Well, he stood in the shower and I knelt outside the tub and leaned forward. He gave me a warning, and then he pushed into the back of my throat with his cock. One stroke, two strokes, and then I gagged. The first couple times weren’t bad, like when your cat is warming up a hairball–it’s more movement than actual product. But the fifth time… I vomited. Actual barf on his actual penis.

    One of the things that I adored about this man was that early on in our relationship, he told me that we were going to get messy together. He told me that he had every expectation of reaching past my sense of modesty to see all the pieces of me. Our bodies weren’t sterile machines. We sweated, we smelled of sex and other things and our bodies produced fluids. Through it all, sir encouraged me and relished the fact that I couldn’t hide myself from him.

    Coming from a long marriage where I was expected to not smell of anything but soap and pure thoughts, this part of our dynamic was refreshing and nerve wracking at the same time. When I puked on sir’s cock, I was horrified. I realized that there were people that had a fetish for that, but I wasn’t that person. Tears leaked out the corners of my eyes from throwing up as I stammered another apology.

    “The only thing I feel sorry about is that you lost your vitamins,” he said.

    I looked down in confusion and saw the mostly dissolved remnants of my daily pills. I started to laugh, amazed that I had just vomited and was feeling good about the experience. Sir said he wanted to work on deep throating a little longer, so I resumed my position and went back to it. (I puked twice more.)

    I’m happy to report that I’m even better at deep throating now. Sir and I are going to take a trip to the toy store to buy a long flexible dildo so I can work on going even further. That sounds really weird, doesn’t it? Sometimes I peek at myself from the outside and wonder, what kind of freak wants to deep throat a ten inch dildo? This freak does, my darlings. I’m going to be a great party favor.

     

    (Oh, if you’re trying this at home, make certain that you establish a noise or hand signal or smack on the thigh for when you’re in distress. This will come in handy if you’re restrained and deep throating in the shower and water goes up your nose. Trust me on this.)

     

    Category Oral Sex | Tags: ,, | 4 Comments

  9. Anal Play vs. Scat Play: Setting the Record Straight

    May 31, 2013 by Nikki Blue

    I’ve rewritten the opening paragraph of this blog post three times now and I’m still not sure I won’t come off sounding like a raging bitch, but you know what?

    Fuck it.

    Anal play has been a hot topic between Heather and me as of late. More so than usual, because Heather has been dealt a handful of harsh criticisms and unwarranted judgments that have been slung with the carelessness of mud. I think it goes without saying my hackles are raised and the claws are out in defense against this pack of close-minded kinksters who believe ALL anal activities fall into the scat play category. This, my kinky friends, is what I call bullshit.

    Viewed as extreme by the majority of kinksters, scat play is loosely defined as getting sexual pleasure from the excretion of feces. Whether it’s from the sight, smell, taste or feel of it, there are those who get off on it. Sometimes scat, also known as scatophilia, is part of a submissive’s desire to be used as a human toilet. Sometimes it’s part of enema play, and there are some Masters who incorporate it into slave training. Like many other kinksters, scat play is a hard limit for me. Like super fucking hard.  Anal play, however, refers to any sexual activity that stimulates the anus. It’s a blanket term used to describe analingus or rimming, fingering, fisting, the use of anal toys, and anal intercourse. It does NOT include the consumption of or anything else pertaining to scat.

    I give a lot of thought to anal play beforehand, making sure my ass is as clean as it can possibly be, because the last thing I want to do is give Mr. K more than he bargains for when I pull the jeweled plug from my asshole and shove it in his eager mouth. Now does that sound like scat play? Didn’t think so.

    There are some who will argue that regardless of the level of preparation, the anus is still a dirty place. I’m not naive to this. I understand that it doesn’t matter how little I eat the day I know Mr. K will worship my ass, or how well I cleanse internally with a douche bottle, there is still the possibility of trace amounts of feces. But that doesn’t stop me from kissing him after he’s tongue fucked my asshole or giving him a blow job that makes his knees buckle after he’s, well, you know. That still doesn’t classify it as scat play as far as I’m concerned.

    Scat play and anal play are clearly different fetishes and saying they are the same doesn’t make it so. I find no appeal whatsoever in scat, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to condemn a person who does either. There’s too much judgment floating around the kinky community as it is, which in Heather’s words is super shitty. And for those who don’t feel that they need more than a soapy shower before a round of anal sex, guess what: still not scat play. With that being said, all fetishes have lines that can easily blur, but with good communication and a clear understanding of limits, those lines are less likely to lose focus.

    Anal play is an important element of the sexual connection Mr. K and I share. It has been from our first night together. And as our relationship and roles have evolved, the purpose of our anal play has grown deeper. We give ourselves freely, allowing the incredible sensations, both physical and mental, to take control of our bodies. The high is more addictive than any drug. So anytime a person, kinky or otherwise, passes judgment on me because of their own hang-ups, I’ll defend myself. And when they push me into a corner trying to shove their definition of anal play down my throat or when they attempt to devalue what I feel is the most powerful expression of intimacy, back up because I’m coming out swinging.

    Category Anal Sex | Tags: ,, | 13 Comments

  10. The Period Predicament

    May 17, 2013 by Nikki Blue

    I hate my period. I hate that I feel like I could eat my children every day for an entire week leading up to it. I hate that the flow is so heavy I need to pop iron supplements like they’re tic tacs so my anemia doesn’t kick in from rapid blood loss causing my vision to blur. But what I hate the most is that when Mr. K visits, eight times out of ten, we have a messy threesome with ol’ Auntie Flo. Her presence is annoying and inconvenient, and to be honest, I don’t feel as dominant when she’s in town. I don’t feel confident enough to sit on Mr. K’s face as he worships my ass, which is something I absolutely adore, and I don’t immediately collapse on top of him in post orgasmic bliss after using him. Instead we clean each other up, rearrange the towels on the bed, and make remarks about hotel housekeeping calling the cops. The red stained sheets are usually one blood splatter away from a full-blown crime scene.

    Fortunately my periods aren’t painful. Fibroid tumors, endometriosis, or ovarian cysts aren’t the cause of my monthly deluge. Altered hormones from pregnancies and my body changing with age are. I assumed there was no solution to my problem and actually began to look forward to menopause so the situation would rectify itself. Last month was particularly brutal, so I started asking questions. My Nurse Practitioner said that up until now, healthy women our age (“our age” meaning perimenopausal) with problematic periods tend to get shafted. I don’t need a hysterectomy because my lady parts are in good shape, and I don’t need birth control pills because my tubes have been cut, burned and tied. And an endometrial ablation isn’t an option because according to the research I’ve done, good results aren’t the norm. What I do need is a period that doesn’t control what I wear or the time between bathroom visits. These days women have more options, and after reading positive reviews about a particular non-hormonal treatment, I walked away with a prescription whose price tag damn near gave me heart failure.

    Almost a week later and $109 poorer, I was preparing for my getaway with Mr. K when my period made an unexpected appearance. My first instinct was to curl into a fetal position and sob hysterically. The second was to ask Google for a magic spell that would make it disappear, because supposedly, Google knows everything. The third, and most irrational by far, was to call my pastor for an emergency prayer circle. Don’t laugh, I’m Southern Baptist. It’s what we do. But then I remembered the whole restraining order thing and quickly shelved that idea. I came to terms with the fact that once again, there would be our definition of blood play and I eventually climbed out of my self-made pit of despair. I popped two of the pills as prescribed and hoped for the best. It was really my only option.

    We didn’t notice much difference the first day. There was still blood and messed up sheets despite the carefully laid beach towels. It was then that I began to worry I was the exception and the pills wouldn’t work for me, but I continued to take them as directed. The next morning, however, there was very little blood evidence on Mr. K, and by late afternoon, there was even less. And when we got naked again that night, my period went missing. It had vanished along with my anxieties of ruined bed linens. To say that we were thrilled is a massive understatement. Mr. K exclaimed the pills were pure genius and we shared a Julie Andrews moment, but with less singing and more orgasms.

    I’m incredibly lucky that Mr. K has no qualms about the state of my vagina during my period. He earned his red wings over a year ago during our first weekend together and he continues to amaze me with how much he loves everything about my body. And now, thanks to modern medicine, I no longer have to arm wrestle Auntie Flo to prove who is more dominant. I am, and I’ll win every fucking time.

     

    Category Sex | Tags: ,, | 4 Comments

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