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Posts Tagged ‘kink’

  1. Under Pressure

    August 16, 2014 by Nikki Blue

    I had fallen asleep while watching JAWS on TV for the bazillionth time, but when he came through the door, I woke immediately, smiling when I saw his face. He flashed the grin I love, the one with his full lips open in surprise and his eyes wide, when he realized I was naked under the covers. I knew he was tired, though. I saw it on his face and in his blue eyes, but still, he moved my hand to his cock after he’d undressed and climbed into bed.

    “I want you to ride me,” he said.

    One of the things I love about Mr. K is his willingness to please me. He takes nearly as much satisfaction from my pleasure as he does from his own. It’s a selflessness I’ve never experienced before and it’s a part of him I find incredibly arousing.

    When he’d said to ride him, I knew what he wanted was for me to climb on top of him and use him to orgasm as I’d done so many times before. I intended to, but not in the way he’d anticipated.

    He didn’t expect me to crawl up the length of his body and straddle his face, which was exactly the reason I did it, but his moans of delight sounded more like gasps for air. And he didn’t bathe his face in the flood of my juices as he licked me either. As a matter of fact, when I looked down at him, I realized he’d shifted me where his attention was focused solely on my clit. THAT was very unusual.

    It struck me that something was wrong, and because I’m me, I freaked out. My mind raced wildly, wondering if he’d grown tired of me during our longer than usual visit. Was he bored with the sex we had? My pussy? Was it no longer the scent and taste he loved after having been filled with SO MUCH CUM? WHAT WAS WRONG WITH ME?

    I blew out a quick breath and wiped my sweaty palms on the pillow near his head, thinking maybe the problem was that he only wanted to fuck. He did, after all, say for me to ride him. But Mr. K isn’t one to beat around the bush. Heh. Bush. He would have said if he wasn’t in the mood to eat me, or if my pussy had reached its cum intake capacity.

    He wants to fuck, I thought. OR maybe he wants my ass. We hadn’t done a whole lot of anal stuff, so maybe he wants me to pin his arms to his side and shove my ass on his face. He LOVES when I do that. And I’ll suck his cock and balls at the same time. Maybe even slap it a bit. Oh yeah, that’ll get him into it.

    Stop laughing. It’s the way my mind works. My plan, however, was a total failure.

    When I turned around giving him unfettered access to his gateway to heaven, I expected to hear his moans of pleasure as I spread my ass open for him to enjoy. Those moans didn’t come, though. He didn’t get all up in it either, literally and figuratively speaking. That’s when I knew for certain– something was wrong.

    “Ride me, baby,” he said. “Use my cock to make yourself come.”

    Again, I knew what he wanted.

    He smiled as I slid on to him and worked myself into the orgasm he loved to watch. The one that stimulated my clit like a continuous edge. The one so extraordinary it left me shaking. But when he pulled me to his side and tucked into the crook of his arm, I carefully pried open the lid to the giant can of obvious.

    “I knew something was wrong when you didn’t want my ass.”

    “It’s not that I didn’t want your ass. There is never a time when I don’t want your ass,” he said. “I couldn’t breathe. I didn’t sleep well last night either, and it was a long day. I’m just exhausted.”

    The thing is, with the 140-something miles in between us, we try to make the most out of our visits which are usually no more than two or three nights. We sleep little and fuck a lot. He doesn’t even take his sleep-aid when we’re together because he says he doesn’t need it. I am his Ambien. But as much as I love hearing those words, I know there are nights when he needs it, and I feel for him as he tosses and turns beside me. On the flipside, the only time I actually do sleep well is when I’m with Mr. K.

    This trip was unusual for us– five nights –which is the most time we’ve ever had together in one visit. It was also a working trip for him, and that meant there were nights he didn’t come through door until after ten. Even though he hadn’t been feeling great and was super tired, he felt guilty that I had been alone all day. Still, he was deep in the pattern of making every moment count.

    “You didn’t have to fuck me,” I said.

    “But I felt like I did.”

    And there it was. Regardless of how exhausted or how ill he was, he felt pressured to fuck me to make up for the time we’d been apart; to keep me happy.

    For the first time in our relationship, I felt like an obligation– a sex one.

    I could have easily recoiled from the sting of his words, but his intention wasn’t to hurt me. I knew that in my heart. What bothered me the most was that he’d pushed his own limits too far without feeling safe enough to ask for mercy. In my mind, I’d failed him.

    Mr. K and I have phenomenal sex, but it’s just the icing on an amazing relationship cake. And we love our cake, a lot. The last thing either of us wanted was to damage our relationship, so we talked through his feelings. I assured him that I loved him– all of him –not just his cock, and I wasn’t dependent on sex, that just being with him made me happy. Sure, I had been naked in bed when he’d come home, but not because I waited for a thorough fucking. The bed we share is a place for closeness without expectations, not for pajamas. I also told him it’s alright to take Ambien when we’re together, that his sleep is important, especially when he’s working. Don’t get me wrong, I love when he wakes me in the early morning hours for sex, but it’s not something I require of him.

    “Oh, but I always want to wake you for sex,” he chuckled.

    And as I lay sleeping soundly beside him hours later, he nudged me awake the way he always does. He kissed me softly, wrapped my legs around him, and filled his need and mine.

    Category Sex | Tags: ,,,,,, | 6 Comments

  2. Don’t Try This at Home, Kids- A Word of Kinky Caution

    September 25, 2013 by Nikki Blue

    If you’re not familiar with it, FetLife is a social networking site geared toward people who are interested in BDSM, Fetishism, and Kink. It’s kind of like Facebook for kinksters, except that it’s a private, membership based community. Aside from being the place where Mr. K and I connected, it’s a place where I feel safe enough to post nekkid selfies and photographs of him wearing my Victoria’s Secret undies to a dinner meeting. And then of course, there was my pee video. My point is, it’s a fantastic resource for all sorts of kinky stuff.

    Kinky & Popular is one of my favorite things about Fetlife. K&P consists of random photographs, videos, and journal entries posted by kick-ass kinksters streamlined by popularity into one page. A person could easily lose HOURS of their day to all the kinky hotness. Not that I have, I’m just saying it would be easy to do so. *ahem* There is, however, a particular journal entry I’ve watched climb the ranks on K&P more than once, and I’m finding its subject very difficult to swallow.

    The Chain Trick, which I chose not repost even though permission was granted, tells kinksters how to stuff a metal chain into a woman’s vagina and…

    “PULL THE CHAIN OUT. Do it in one continuous and rapid motion.”

    This action supposedly results in a massive squirting orgasm. Sounds fun, right? Fuck yes it does. Who doesn’t want a massive squirting orgasm?

    The post goes on to caution players in regards to the type of chain and how to prepare it for use. While the chain is understandably important, what about the vagina the chain will be stuffed into? Where is the disclaimer warning against possible pinching or even tearing of the delicate lady bits as the chain is yanked from the vagina? Do we not get a disclaimer because we’re kinky?

    To be honest, it’s not the journal entry itself that gives me pause. Okay, fine, the mere thought of it sends my vag into shrieking hysterics, but what I’m really struggling with are the 1,690–wait–1,695 comments the post has garnered. The majority of comments–and I’ve read most of them–were along the lines of “I can’t wait to try!” and “Heading to Dom Depot!” Very few of them questioned the safety of the aforementioned scenario. One Domme even mentioned the enjoyment of ripping a chain from her male sub’s ass. I was all like “Nooooooooo! Nothing should EVER be ripped from an asshole! Never put anything hard inside the rectum, never put anything sharp inside the rectum, and NEVER PUT ANYTHING INSIDE THE RECTUM THAT’S NOT RECOMMENDED FOR ANAL PLAY!”

    Breathe, Nikki. Breathe.

    Let’s look at it from another angle. Most of us are familiar with the anonymity the internet affords us. It allows some people to say things they normally wouldn’t, and it gives some the opportunity to be something or someone they’re not in real life. Do you see where I’m going with this? I thought you might.

    “I’m not a Dom or a kinkster, but I play one on the internet because I can.”

    Okay, so I may have tweaked it a little to fit the point I’m trying to make, but think about it. How do we know for sure the newest kinky craze, whatever it may be, wasn’t written by a fifteen year old boy masquerading as an experienced kinkster? We don’t, and that should be enough to raise our caution flag.

    Listen, I’m a kinky motherfucker, and I totally empathize with the excitement of trying that next thing to get off, but–you knew there was a ‘but’ coming, right?–with kinky ventures comes great responsibility. Be smart about it. Don’t take someone else’s word that something is safe. Do your own research and be prepared for what can go wrong, because believe me, there is always a chance something can go wrong. Remember the case of the missing butt plug?

    Exactly. I rest my case.

    Category BDSM | Tags: ,,,,,, | 19 Comments

  3. Watersports: Not As Easy As It Sounds

    November 2, 2012 by Nikki Blue

    Tonight is Halloween, and while my short and loud people are out pandering for sweets, I’m sitting here trying to put my most recent experience with my boyfriend into words. I know I’ve said it before, but we have encountered few limits since our relationship began. And it seemed the ones I thought were hard weren’t limits at all. Except for fisting. My babies didn’t wreck my vagina and there was no way a hand was going to.

    We put a lot of effort into getting to know each other when we met, carefully peeling back the self-preserving layers to expose the core of our needs. In his opinion, there was more to me than met the eye. He suspected broaching the subject of me fucking him with a strap-on would give me pause, but felt my hesitation would quickly give way to curiosity, and soon after to a deep rooted desire. He was right, and that was only the beginning of our travels into virgin territory. But when he shared his wish for us to try watersports, I faltered. I didn’t know what to say, and I damn sure didn’t know what to do.

    Did I really want to pee on him? Did I really want him to pee on me? When was the right time to announce the need to empty my bladder? During foreplay? Over pancakes? Were golden showers even related to sex at all? Fuck if I knew. The only thing I knew for certain was the thought of peeing on my boyfriend’s chest during my period was a bit much, even for a man who wears his red wings proudly and has no qualms about having regular threesomes with Auntie Flo.

    Much discussion of the subject led to him sending me videos of him peeing, to sticking his hand between my legs as I sat naked on the toilet, and eventually to me sending him videos as I peed, which he found incredibly erotic. The next step was for me to actually pee on him, even though I was still a little unsure about it. But as our relationship grew stronger, so did my desire to please him, and once I’d made the decision to go through with it, it seemed natural– it felt right.

    As he sat on his knees between my legs in the bathtub, the hunger in his eyes nearly stole my breath. He lifted my foot to the edge and slid his hands along the inside of my thighs. They were slick with our mingled fluids. I felt the pressure of my full bladder and attempted to relax my muscles to release the flow, but was surprised when only a little came out. He teased me about having stage fright as he pushed his fingers inside of me. They glistened in the dim light from the hallway as he spread the wetness on his chest before stroking his hard cock. His fingers found their way inside me again, then into his mouth, and back into me. The vision of him savoring the taste of us will forever be tattooed on my brain.

    To him, it was slightly awkward and sweet. To me, it was incredibly sexy.

    I couldn’t concentrate on peeing, though. I couldn’t focus on anything but him on his knees and the sensation of his fingers inside me. I ran my fingers through his thick hair as his lips brushed my stomach. He dipped his fingers inside me over and over again while telling me to relax, but I couldn’t. I needed to pee, but it wouldn’t come out.

    When it was obvious that stage fright would overshadow my performance and the grand finale would be nothing more than a handful of sparklers, he turned me around and bent me over. I planted my hands firmly on the tile as his tongue licked me everywhere, and his fingers filled and stretched both holes. The overwhelming sensation of it all made my knees shake and my head spin. He worked me over with his hands until he was sure I’d ask for mercy for the first time in our relationship, but I didn’t.

    Later, as we lay in bed, I asked him how many fingers he had inside me. He held up his arm and traced an invisible line across the middle of his hand, his lips curling into a smile.

    Huh.

    Okay, so I found out fisting may not be a hard limit after all, and that peeing isn’t just peeing. I’m not giving up on it, though. Does this mean that I took pleasure in the fetish itself? Or was it fulfilling my boyfriend’s fantasy that got me off? I don’t really know the answer to that, but I do know I want that wonderfully hot bathtub scene again. I just need to relax, and according to a support group on FetLife (yes, there are pee fetish support groups), he shouldn’t stimulate me until the flow begins.

    Heather was fascinated by my inability to pee and even more so by my fisting revelation.

    “Oh, how the mighty have fallen,” she snorted.

    “Yeah, well I may have almost been fisted, but you’re going to be monogamous.”

    “Don’t you use that word with me!”

    *cue hysterical laughter*

    I’m not above fighting dirty.

     

    Category Kinky Sex | Tags: ,,,,,,, | 29 Comments

  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.

    Category Kinky Sex | Tags: ,, | No Comments