Breasts


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.

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I love these eclectic images from the Toronto artist Jon Todd.  This first one in particular reminds me of a print Robbie owns of a beautiful Indian woman, bare-breasted, with her sari framing her face the way the iconic halo is framing this woman’s head.

I’ve always loved art with rich colors, and I especially appreciate the mosaic effect in a lot of Todd’s work.  In his “Snake Handler,” for instance, the woman’s entire eye and eyelid are covered in a grid of color, like her neck and the neck of the woman above.  (I also find the corset more than a little appealing.)  You can clearly see Mexican, Russian, and Japanese accents in the art, as well as the influence of tattoo artists.


Turns out Todd sells geisha t-shirts and other gear, although all but his extra-small geisha hoodies are sold out at the moment.  I hope that means he–and be-geisha’d goth girls–are having good times right now.

Down-low on Todd via Lost at E-Minor.

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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.

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My wonderful and generous internet buddy trinity-pup “gave” me this sexy blogger award (aka meme).  Because I adore her and because she and her latex catsuit are sexy indeed, I am now addressing the challenge of listing 5 sexy things about myself.

I have a hard time knowing what is sexy about myself.  I know what I think is pretty or attractive or even beautiful about myself, but that is because my other women notice it and tell me.  It’s not usually what men find sexy.

Robbie gave me the best understanding I have of what is sexy about me.  He told me all the time why I was sexy–not just to flatter me but because he really wanted me to understand and see it in myself, I think.  Or maybe to get into my pants, again, and again and again.

In any case, seeing myself through his eyes was a wonderful experience.  So here is what Robbie would say was sexy about me:

1.  My breasts.  He once told me that I have “nearly perfect” breasts.  I don’t see anything imperfect about them; they have always been ample without being saggy.  I have have medium-sized brownish-pink nipples that are very sensitive but can also take a lot of pain and tugging and all that good stuff.

I have spilling-out-of-my-dress breasts.

2. lipsMy mouth, which according to Robbie is “generous”.  This is, I assume, his way of telling me I have a big mouth.  (It’s genetic–people in my family can fit god-awfully large objects into their mouths, and I am no exception.)  It’s also his way of saying that I give good and plenteous head, which I hope is true.  My lips are full and I have a big, open smile, which makes me happy, or more accurately, is the result of my happiness.

3.  My mind.  It’s pretty devious at times.

4.  The fact that I orgasm easily.  For a long time it would never have occurred to me that this was sexy, but that’s because I wasn’t having sex in front of, or with, multiple people.  Having been parties where I have come without much provocation, I can say that people seem to find this aspect of me sexy.  You’d think they’d never heard anyone moan in ecstasy before.

5.  And my favorite: the way I walk.  I don’t know that it actually looks good, but it feels great. I learned to walk this way when I was living in Paris.  It used to drive me crazy to see French women walking all over Paris with these impossibly sexy, runway walks and haughty expressions.  They were doing some kind of rolling thing with their pelvises, like pivoting on an imaginary dildo as they walked.  So I copied them, and when I am feeling sexy, I walk like that.  That walk makes me feel sexier, and feeling sexy, as everyone knows, is the best way to be sexy.

The first day I met Robbie I put on this sexy French saunter as I was walking towards his car, with him behind me, and he told me later that he had noticed my hips swaying.  He said at that moment all he could think about was ass-fucking me.  My take on it is that he would have thought about ass-fucking me the first chance he had to look at my ass, however I was walking.  I’m just that ass-fuckable.

* * * * *

I’m incredibly grateful to trinity-pup for linking to me; I’ve had a total block about what to write and this was a good way to get going.  So I’m going to send the award to four sexy ladies who have written about how they occasionally get stuck for something to say, or are particularly stuck now.

~ mia.  we all want to know how things are going with you and the radiator–are they hot and heavy?

~ kitten in change.  I know you’re sexy, with or without the slavery.

~ penny.  sexy in a freeform way.  😉

~ hannah.  Incredibly beautiful, incredibly sexy, a fabulous sex-positive role-model, and incredibly quiet at the moment.

Merry Christmas to all!

Here’s to a joyous day, with only the appropriate amount of peeking . . .

peekaboo

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