Sex Objects

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, 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.


[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 lying on a beach in Mexico, one that I’ve actually been to before, a few times.  One where there is nothing to do but stare at beauty, doze, and drink beer. 

I go back to my hotel, which is airy, and smells of soap.  I lie down for a nap.  When I wake, I shower and call the hotel front desk.  I order him.

He is the hotel bartender; he is Robbie; he is submissive; he is the man I slept with a year ago.  He is all the men who draw me to them, and none of them.  I have never met him.

He is not exactly an object, but he is definitely for my use, and he is there to provide service, without me having to ask, or give directions, or give anything back.  He takes a bottle of massage oil (that comes from some convenient and as-yet undiscovered nook of my room) and rubs me down, starting with my back, neck to toe.  Then he works me over neck to toe, down the front.

Then he starts on my pussy. 

The oil is warm, his hands are warm, the day is hot and the room is cool and dark.  I relax and let my mind wander; I am not responsible for being responsive.   I don’t have to worry about my pleasure pleasing him.   In fact, I hold orgasm at bay for as long as I can; I want to savor this.

His hands are strong, but they don’t cause me pain; they push and pull and knead.  They explore, but they are not tentative.  They know my body already.  And eventually, they drive me over the edge, into a sweaty, glistening, oily, salty, drenched, cummy mess.

I lie there, breathing deeply.  He wipes his hands on a towel, awkward.  He is hard.  He helps me up, dries off my legs where I have squirted, hands me a soft towel.  I tip him and he leaves.  I feel no pang when I think of his unused erection.  After all, I’m having him again tomorrow.


Not the image I wanted–that one’s on my home computer–but close.  By Gunter Hagedorn, found at Fresh Nudes.

I’m heading to Robbie’s today for the billionth eight-hour trip. I’m nervous; I always am before I go–distracted with practicalities and worries. Preoccupied with work or errands not done.

That lasts for the first two hours. The next three or four hours are boring. And then I get within striking distance of him and I can feel it . . . and my own fantasies start scrolling and I push the pedal down harder and I imagine that first kiss, better even, usually, than our very first kiss, which was the best of my life.

(Though last time I saw him, he dispensed with the kiss right off the bat, and had me crawl across the floor to him and suck his cock while he nonchalantly filed his nails, the better to finger me later. Little avalanches of nail-dust sifted onto my nose as I applied myself to the task. I do love objectification.)

Photograph from Autumn Sonnichsen‘s “Compasses” series.

I know that Robbie is still reading what I post here, because the other night he brought up tit-fucking. He once told me that it never particularly interested him, but I supposed something I wrote, said, or wore managed to attract his attention.

So when he mentioned it as we were lying in bed a few nights ago, I didn’t waste a lot of time responding. “When you were titty-fucked in the past,” he whispered, heavily, “did you lick up the cum or rub it in?”

“Lick it up,” I promptly answered.

“Good girl,” he purred, and straddled my chest.

I covered his cock and my chest with a liberal coating of saliva; I pushed my breasts up and over his body as he fucked my cleavage. It was interesting (and far more submissive) trying to figure out how to correctly control my boob-pressure to provide a good experience for him, rather than having him moosh my chest himself. And when he came I did, as promised, lick up every available, sweet-tasting drop. (Robbie smells and tastes better than any man I have ever met.)

Today, in a fit of non-submissive pique, I picked a fight with him about how I haven’t felt I’ve been getting the kind of sexual attention I want lately. After he managed to dial my nasty temper back from a flame to a small sizzle, he said, mostly (?) jokingly, “Anyway, I don’t know what you’re so upset about. You got tit-fucked the other night; you should be glad!”

He was right about that. I did indeed get very lucky.

Breasts from Shay‘s collection of hentai an’ stuff.

I have been feeling profoundly dismal lately—partly because of PMS, and also because of things that are happening here. The “new things” I so delicately alluded to a couple of posts ago have, in fact, been further experiments in sex with other people. In my view, our difficulty in reaching a kind of common understanding or agreement about how to handle “the others stuff” is one of our biggest obstacles and among our largest sources of conflict. (His view, I think, is that our D/s dynamic is the “problem”, if there is one, in our sex life, and maybe between us in general.)

Whatever the reality, the last couple of weeks have been alternately wondrous and gloomy, with the gloom increasing steadily increasing, along with the amount of water I seem to be retaining. And still, last night as bedtime approached, my hormone-infused body eyed his opportunistically. Since nothing of note resulted, I am posting something I came across while cleaning out my desk–a fantasy from a few months ago that I apparently wrote down as soon as it occurred to me. (Actually, just after masturbating I wrote down my fantasies, which is why they’re not particularly coherent.)

Coincidentally (or not), persephone just posted about a real-life orgasm-predicament her owner recently placed her in. It seems to have worked on her.

* * *

I imagined, as I had the last time I’d been with Robbie, one of his fantasies just as he described it—I imagined him having me masturbate in front of a group of men. I imagined how I would feel with them staring at me. I was sure I wouldn’t be able to get aroused, certain I wouldn’t be able to turn myself on with a bunch of guys just sitting silently and looking at me.

But if he started talking to me, I thought, that would be a different matter. Ninety percent of the time the things that come out of his mouth inflame me. I thought of being on the long plateau where orgasm seems neither near nor far, and the thought of him turned the heat on under my imagination.

“Come on, cunt,” I imagined him saying, just the way he says it when we’re together. “Come on, come for me.” After working incredibly well for a few weeks, this actually has stopped working altogether; resisting his imagined comment, I actually shook my head, and the imaginary me did the same.

“No?” my fantasy-Robbie said. “I tell you what. You get until the count of ten to get whatever pleasure you can, because after that we’re just going to use you. You understand me?” he said, menacingly, getting up in my face, a fierce, twisted look on his. “And there will be none of this “red light”-“yellow light” crap, no ouch, no tears, or at least, it won’t matter if there are, because it just won’t make a difference.”

At this I got so excited I could feel myself start to gush. “Yeah, that’s right. You come now. And then we’re going to take turns fucking that cunt. Get it over with, get out of the way.” By this time I was plunging my hands through my folds in a way I know brings on violent orgasms, but in my mind he was the one with his fingers up inside me. “You cunt, come for me now!” I did while my mind spun out the rest of the fantasy in the endless freefall of climax: him grabbing me and flipping me over onto a horse and fucking me a bit to open me up while he hauled my head back by my hair so one of his guests could plunge himself all the way down my throat; him stepping aside to watch as the other me fucking me in turn, wherever they wanted to; and finally taking me himself, the last one, the first one, my only one, the one who owns me.

And the best, and worst part, was knowing all along that I’d have to, want to, thrill to tell him how crazily excited I got and how he is, I know he is, right when he says that given time he will get everything he wants from me.

First image by WinterWolf Studios, which I discovered thanks to Sexoteric. Second image by the tremendously imaginative Eugenio Recueno.

The other day, doing some errands, I ran into men. This happens with some regularity to me, given that I don’t live in a convent. Since I started dating Robbie, though, my casual male encounters have begun to feel different than before.

The first man I met was a boy, really—twenty if that. He had this color skin and dark black hair and eyes, and he was working in the Mexican restaurant where I stopped to get lunch. While he was fixing me a couple of chicken soft tacos, he explained that it was his first day–actually, it was painfully obvious. The neat thing was he wasn’t nervous. He just kept smiling a ten thousand gigawatt smile, and slowly preparing the food, and apologizing profusely but not grovelingly, and continuing to look stunning.

Five years ago I would have felt obligated to feign indifference to his beauty; after all, he might have noticed me staring at him and then . . . what? Might have thought I found him attractive? Yep, I did—big deal. He brightened my day and I didn’t do any damage to his, I don’t think—just soaked up the sunshine.

The second guy was selling magazines for a homeless charity. “Hi lady, pretty lady, oh lady, nice lady, oh I like that smile, I like that smile.” I have seen this guy in my town for going on ten years now, and his patter is always the same, so I didn’t take it to heart—but it was true that I had a big grin on my face and was slightly high on life, having just left the restaurant with the smiling server. So I told the guy he was a sweet talker and pulled a dollar out of my wallet for the paper. “Your smile is so pretty,” he said, “Where you from?”

He was from North Carolina, originally. I flashed my weak Southern credentials—I grew up near that city of Southern efficiency and Northern charm, Washington, DC-–and we got to chatting about life up North versus life down South. He asked whether I felt lonely in this big unfriendly city . . . did I have a family? Did I live alone? As his questions multiplied, I started to feel the slight frantic fuzz I generally feel when a man is making anything resembling a pass at me.

I knew I could mention Robbie; I also knew that doing so wouldn’t work as the deterrent I imagined it would when I was younger, less sexually experience, and unaware of the word “poly”. Besides, mentioning Robbie usually invited questions about why we don’t live together, how Robbie could let a woman like me (I’m not that great—I’m quoting, I swear!) live on my own, and so on and so forth.

But suddenly, I was calm. It occurred to me that I didn’t have to perceive myself as the victim of this guy’s attentions. I could consider them a compliment–and still not let him control the direction of the conversation. (It’s nice to spend time with a dominant; it teaches you how to assert yourself.) I thought, “Right, well, the thing is, if you don’t want to flirt with the guy anymore, don’t flirt. Problem solved.” So I mentioned Robbie, but mostly I steered the conversation back to the guy’s family, and whether he missed North Carolina, and when he was going back home, and what the food was like down there. Pretty soon we were swapping stories about summer heat and lemonade, which was fine by me.

I’ve tried to talk about men and attention with Robbie, to figure out what’s different since I met him, with mixed success. Robbie certainly understands it when I tell him that men have been hitting on me with increased frequency since we started dating, and he’s mostly quite cool with that. “I could be having the worst dry spell of my life,” he says, “and then I start getting it regular and boom! Women are jumping into my shopping cart at the grocery store.”

What he didn’t quite get, at first, was that the attention made me uncomfortable. One evening I was indignantly ranting about the way some men at a play party he and I had gone to together were ogling me, and he said, puzzled, “But you must have gotten that all your life.” Well, yes and no. I have gotten some attention—but I usually go out of my way to avoid the kind of attention you get when you’re dressed at your slutty best.

I don’t expect Robbie to get the Madonna-whore-complex in its full neurotic glory (yet). I do expect myself to find a way to balance the two. Being with a man who makes me feel like a sex goddess in most ways absolutely helps. I feel sexy/ier. I act sexy/ier. But most vitally, I’ve acquired a little more comfort with the idea of men’s sexual attraction to me. It doesn’t seem unreasonable that they would approach me as a sexual being any more. It doesn’t seem like some sign that they are rabid, insane, serial killers, or ill-mannered. It seems like a plausible thing for them to do.

And so there is no reason for me to be coy about things with them, to do my I’m-ignoring-your-innuendo act (which only encouraged them to be more overt). I am, I hope, starting to behave like what I want to be–a woman who gets fucked with satisfying regularity, who is not necessarily looking for more sex but doesn’t mind recognizing the sexuality we swim in, who doesn’t have to close her eyes to the pleasure of a smile or a compliment in order to feel good, or faithful, or safe. I’m not done yet, but I’m getting closer, one lemonade at a time.

Yet more work by Yuko Shimizu, whose stuff is scrumptious.

John Peri Brunette

Advice, please?

I want to dye my hair. I’m not old enough to be going as gray as I am going. Robbie wants me to dye my hair as per his instructions, which I find hawt. (Actually, he says he wants control over the “cut, color, and style of your hair”. When I told him he already had control over the cut and style, he said, “I do?!” like an eight-year-old who’d just been given permission to shop for a new bicycle.)

The problem is, neither one of us knows anything about dying hair. I realize I may be making this overly complex, but the whole thing seems challenging, especially after midnight and a bottle of beer. Can I do it myself? Do I need to get highlights or lowlights if I don’t want it to look like shoe-polish? Meep.

mia, I’m talkin’ to you here . . .

My own hair is ash-brown with lots of blonde highlights in the summer and increasing strands of gray. You can, if desired, click here for a peek at my mane, in all its grayness. (These are my not-naked-non-Thursday pictures.)

Here is the hair (and face?) I would like to have. A “chestnut brown” is what Robbie (and I) settled on.

Oh, and just for comparison purposes–this is the picture of the chestnut color that Robbie has in mind. He sent it to me when I asked. Remeber, boys and girls: this is why it’s important not to bother Master or Mistress with silly questions. (*Snort*)

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