Bondage


In place of thought or analysis, today I’m posting a few things I found elsewhere on the Internetswebconnection.

First, the warm fuzzy.  Shay (of the s spot) tweeted a link to this really adorable list of the 15 Things You Should Know About Breasts.  It’s a quality list–I only knew 1.5 of the items on it.  For instance, I definitely did not know that “the average female nipple is 3/8″ long when erect.  Slightly taller than 5 stacked quarters.”

Breast graphics by Jason Powers.

Second, the squickily disturbing.  TBK posted two days ago about a porn clip with major editing problems.  The young starlet in it who was fucking and sucking two cocks would stop every few moments to complain about how much pain she was in–and every time she fell “out of character”, the cameras kept rolling.  If all (a significant proportion? any?) porn is like this, then I feel dirty retroactively for all the women I’ve watched fake their enjoyment of sex.

Third, the simply hot.  TroyOrleans is up to her many badass dominatrix tricks, my favorite of which is her use of MEO’s Silentium Tongue Gag.  No matter how many times I see this thing, it still makes me drool with desire.  (Get it?  Drool?  Gag? . . . )

Enjoy the fruits of others’ labors.

[I wrote most of this post last year, when I was living in a house with friends who had small children.]

The other day, one of the toddlers asked me to come outside and play.  “I need my batime,” he said to me, pointing to a long, shallow box filled with styrofoam cushions.  His elocution needs work.

“What is this–your Batcar?” I asked, referring to a recent obsession.

“NO!  It’s my BATIME!”

It took him crawling into the box and curling on his side for me to figure out that what he needed was his bedtime.  When I looked, I could see that the box was remarkably like a bed–the styrofoam cushions were topped with a pillow-sized block, and there was a piece of foam wrapping that served as the perfect blanket.  The day was cold, so I covered him up with it well.

And then he wanted me to shut the lid.

I balked.  I really did not want to scare him, and the whole getup looked way too much like a child-sized coffin for me to feel relaxed.  On the other hand, I was right there, the box was cardboard, and he seemed happy.  And very insistent.  So I closed the lid, lightly.

From inside came a high, hysterical sound–the sound of delighted giggles.

I opened up the box to see a smiling boy who wanted me to help fix his blanket and to shut his bed again.  So I did, again and again as giggles gripped him.  I got the idea to pick the box up and pretend I was carrying a package around, which induced more giggles, until the carrying went on a bit longer than he liked, and I heard “Want down!” from my parcel.  That scared us both off from that game for the rest of the afternoon.

Still, my young friend’s interest in enclosed spaces got me wondering, again, what it is in some of us that finds enclosure so comforting, and yet so very thrilling?

Sculpture by the German artist and sculptor Bithja Moor.

I have an urge to post about a million things, but the fastest thing I can slap up on the internet right now is a picture of me in a karada that Robbie whipped up over Thanksgiving. His rope technique is getting much better; he’s been reading and studying for a long time–before he met me, really. He very much wants to learn more, and he has all the ingredients I imagine would make a good rope top: 1) toppiness; 2) the ability to tie things–he has been using knots for practical purposes since he was a kid; 3) an OCD-type focus on learning things–he’s willing to look at a picture of someone in rope until he figures out what’s going on, whereas I look at it until I get distrac–squirrel!

What he doesn’t have is a rope bunny (at least one that’s close to hand) or a mentor. A few weeks ago, he got to go to a rope workshop, and then he got to come see his preferred bunny. The rope workshop was awesome for him–he learned a lot, got a lot of feedback on his ties, and felt, I think, like he was doing it well enough.  Certainly when he got his paws on me at Thanksgiving, I could tell the difference; he was much more confident and much faster.

Lots of our previous attempts at rope ties have been abortive, because I get so turned on by rope that I hyperventilate and get dizzy within seconds and we have to stop.  (I gather, too, that I’m not supposed to lock my knees?)  This time, he sat me down on a stool for the first part of the tie, and had me in this body harness in under 5 minutes; I was comfortable and happy the whole time, and he was talking to me and checking in.  Because I was talking to him, I didn’t spin off into loopy la-la sub-land . . . at least, not until after he got the rope on and got about 500 pictures of me.  He spent an hour or an hour and a half watching me gradually cream myself before he fucked me.  Such is the hard, hard life of a bunny.

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Robbie owns five acres of stunning farmland, a fact I don’t think I’ve mentioned here before.  His land is so beautiful he often jokes that I’m in the relationship for his property rather than for him.  The joke is funny because we both know it’s a litte too close to the truth.  The first night I met him, he took my hand and led me out to show me the back fields, and the night sky above them, and wrapped me in his arms while I sighed happily.  “Feels like home, doesn’t it?” he murmured into my ear. “It does,” I nodded.

It still does, now more than ever.  He and I have plowed and planted here, buried and raised pets, kissed in virtually every corner.  I’ve written so little this visit because we’re in the midst of laying out a garden that is 2800 sq. feet, or maybe 2900–I forget, or he recalculates.  In fact, there has not been a whole lot of time and energy for things besides eating, working, eating, and sleeping.  (Especially since I sleep 11 hours a day when given the opportunity.) 

Nonetheless, Robbie has done more than his share to facilitate fun in the midst of farming.  A couple of days ago, he had me string a trellis for the 6″ snow peas and snap peas that are eager to climb something, anything.  I wove and tied binder twine (or is it baling twine?) in a zig-zag pattern between two horizontal pieces of clothes-line.  The plan is that at the end of the summer, we can throw pea vines and binder twine directly into the compost bin. 

Robbie had to teach me a few knots in order for me to make the trellis: a square knot, to tie pieces of twine together, an overhand knot, so that I could tie the twine to the wire, and a half-hitch, so I could secure the overhand knot.   Well, he didn’t so much as teach me the knots as teach me the names for them, and make me aware that motions I’d been making rather randomly all my life were distinct and distinguishable.  A half a day spent tying scratchy fibers definitely got my bondage juices flowing, though, and Robbie is more than attuned enough to me to take advantage of any and all juices he notices.

Later that afternoon, I took a shower and asked if there was anything more to do.  He said he had a particular task for me that might give me an idea of what my long-term farming “duties” might be like if I were around the place more often.  It turned out that this involved wearing a chest harness while I raked up a few grass cuttings from the front lawn and put them around some plants as mulch.  When I’d done that comfortably, Robbie tightened the ropes and gave me another job to do–possibly the difficult task of taking a nap.  (After three years, he is getting accustomed to my habits.)  And after one more readjustment of the ropes, I got to set the table, make a salad for dinner, and sit down with him for a bit before my ropes came off. 

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I love rope almost as much as I love Robbie and his farm–in honesty, it is sometimes difficult o say which holds pride of place in my heart.  I was thinking about rope today, and about this post, and about how if I wrote it, I might be able to explain how deep and primal my love for rope is.  I thought about two 7-week-old kittens we have on the farm, and how, the other day, their mother plopped herself down in front of us and started to nurse them.  While the kittens pawed and kneaded her belly, the mother cat’s eyes were almost shut from pleasure.  A steady purr rose from the entire group.  Bondage is like that for me–a comforting presence, a steady pull that makes me feel loved and wanted, content and happy.  And luckily for me, the ties that bind me aren’t just literal.

More images from the phenomenal Yuko Shimizu.

malesubmission

Here’s what I know about My schedule for the next two weeks:

After I write this, I’m taking a nap.

Thursday I’m free.

Friday, May 8, I have to send My best friend an e-card for her birthday and take the dog to get a bath.  I will be available in the afternoon and early evening; contact Me soon.

This weekend, May 9 and 10, I hope to go for drinks with someone who refuses to call me back, so it may turn out that I actually have time.  If you’ve been trying (and failing) to go out with Me, and can risk being stood up for someone I like better, text me.

Thursday, May 14, I’m going to go see Robbie, and he’s going to fuck me blind.  As a result, from Tuesday, May 18 to Thursday, May 20, I will only be accepting appointments to have My feet worshipped.

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Over the summer in general, My plans are ill-defined and amorphous, but like everyone fabulous, I have an array of parties, events, and jaunts to resorts to keep me busy.  July weekends in particular are looking pretty iffy for me.  I can’t keep track of all of them, but you can, by consulting My calendar.

I hope that’s helpful to My legions of admirers.

Photos via Male Submission Art.

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I stumbled across this video the other day in the New York Times.  I wish I could embed it.  I really liked watching it.  It’s about two working-class brothers who made their fortunes by launching a leather business in Pakistan.  It took them time to succeed because in a place with an extensive garmet industry, they had to identify a niche market.

You see where this is going yet?

They make bondage gear.  The first thing they made was a straightjacket.

What really moved me about the story was not the rags-to-riches tale of the two brothers, who really do seem to have been through the school of hard knocks, but the attitude of the journalist.  There was no sneering or giggling-behind-his hand at his interview subjects.  In the wake of the publicity bizarre articles like the one SF Weekly recently published about Kink.com, kinky people can become paranoid that everyone hates them and that the media is out to get them.

It’s nice to remember that it ain’t necessarily so.  It’s good to see that some folks, like the lovely, 25-year old woman who has designed and sold garments for the company for three years, can look at a dog collar and recognize both their own desires and the desires of others as part of the great pattern of human nature.


doggiemasks2

[Picture?  Oh go-on. I’ll put a picture up later.  I’m at work–you do some work too.]

Edit:  Okay, pup, your patience is an inspiration.  Here you go.

I’m trying to find a way to give R. more room to be him.  From talking with him briefly, I think that perhaps he thinks that I shouldn’t have to try so hard, and neither should he.  We should be able to be ourselves, and find someone or someones who are okay with that, with whom there is less strain and struggle.

That may be true.  I am not sure.  What I know is that I’ve been watching kasia at Beautiful and Depraved trying to let go of her lover with love, and it’s an impressive effort. 

Whether I let go of him or not, I definitely want to set him free.   I don’t find Sting as moving as I did when I was 19, but he is right to say that you can’t control an independent heart.

And anyway, I think I still might want a whipping boy, at least on occasion. 

jansson010ws

And I do, most definitely, want to be a prisoner in the dark, tied up with chains no one but I and my lover can see.  Well, the visitors who came by now and again to talk to R. might see them, but that’s about it. 

I think I need to go have a swoon. 

Photo of victim found at the delicious new Male Submission Art.

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