It was a dark and stormy night...

I am in the process of deflowering an adult male. The virginity I am taking has less to do with the mechanical aspect of sexual virginity as much as the psychological one. He is experiencing submission for the first time and this is our second scene together.

The details are boring enough for those of you who have years of experience. Blindfold, wrists bound, mouth gagged and legs tied apart. Balls tied neatly into two tight, bouncing orbs. Various tools of sensual torture and sensational arousal used to accomplish my evil plan which consists of getting one young man to discover addiction in the form of sexual submission to me. So far, we are coming along nicely. He is confident and comfortable enough in his sexuality and his masculinity that he has no need to suddenly switch on his "macho man" behaviors when he gets too close to surrender. He delights in it like a child with a game seeing how he will surprise himself by how far he can go.

I disciplined him for bad behavior during the last session and left him in this helpless state. His wife had been there watching the entire scene, making mental notes and relishing the opportunity to reap the rewards of his frustrated arousal. (They have a lovely, playful marriage that allows them to have these experiences with each other. I am always impressed by the emotional security of committed couples.) I abandoned him to his wife knowing full well I had no intention of rewarding his previous bad behavior with too much of my attention. I also knew that it never occurred to him that his previous transgression would have any weight on the current interaction. After all, if it was insignificant enough for him to barely remember it, why would I deem it memorable enough for punishment?

How quickly we forget how bad habits start.

She called me later and gave me a quick report before bed. He was shaking. Dazed. Blown out. Breathing coming in hard, short bursts. He had gone into his zone. Sub-space. Deep space. Head space. That space between here and nothingness where dreaming and being are all happening simultaneously and we are attached to our bodies by nothing more than silvery tethers of sensation. He had lost the last bits of control in a single moment and had won the right to taste the divine nectar of real surrender.

And now the real addiction to me begins.

I don't have any desire to take him from his wife. I have limited use for him. I enjoy opening him though. I enjoy his surrender to me. She can have the rest of him. I only want the part of him that seeks ablution of his unutterable and intolerable filthiness and perversion. She can have his love and devotion. I want to engraft his need with intolerably acute desires. It is a sweet surrender that is given when it is given wholly. And herein lies my addiction.

I want it all. Every last drop of it. Give me even the slightest taste of your authentic surrender and I will split the heavens open searching for the rest of it. I will have it and you will give it to me. There is no other way.

And so it goes.

I sit here in silence enjoying a hot cup of coffee and a cool breeze in the evening sunset while I relay these things to you. This moment of solitude with hot, satisfying refreshment and cool, moving air is true beauty captured in a moment. I am at peace in ways that only animals can understand when they lie in cool grass in warm sunshine. I used to worry about corrupting the comfortably innocent by opening up their eyes to such secret rooms in their psyche. I did not understand what it meant when they say that most men lead lives of quiet desperation. I understand it now and I know that the silent suffering they do has little to do with me or anyone else that awakens them to their own truth so vividly. Their internal agony has more to do with not knowing what stops them from finding their bliss. Opening their eyes to what is possible for them to experience is both a curse and a blessing. It is not my responsibility to decide for them which it should be. I am only the messenger.

In the end, I am reduced to an opening sentence in a much larger chapter of their lives. I can only hope that I remain a strong and memorable opening and not a worn out cliche that could stand on its own merit as a common mistake.

Who knows. Perhaps that isn't such a bad thing. Even a dark and stormy night can have its merits in the right context.

Wicked Wish

Self Portrait in Black and White

Be nice or else...

Mistaken Identity

By the way,

this is NOT my ass being spanked, whipped, flogged or anything else in the photos on this blog. MY ass should be so big and round!

A full body shot coming as soon as I have a photo of my new nurse's uniform. I promise. *smile*

The Ground She Walks On

Foot fetishists.

God, how I love them. Not the guys who think women's feet are cool or neat. Not the primping peacocks who determine if they can even have a relationship with a woman based on the pampering and condition of her feet. No, real foot fetishists. True foot fetishists. The real, hard wired foot obsessed pervert. Mmmmm. The world needs more of them. We really do. In every aspect of true, hardcore sexual kink - there is a personality type that populates it. Freud may not be the quack everyone considers him to be as a result. In this case, with foot fetishists - there is a specific personality type that populates the field and my pleasure in them is enormous.

They are old fashioned romantics. Nevermind the occasional pervert who has the social graces of a prostitute's 'john', no, the majority of them are true, dyed in the wool emotional romantics. They aren't interested in pain, degradation or out of body experiences. They want to show the level and depth of their devotion to the most graceful, feminine part of you - your feet.

Delicate arches and fragile bones in the foot are impossible to imitate. The smell of a woman's foot is loaded with female pheremones (sex smells) that are impossible to ignore. Science has shown that the odors emitting from a female foot cause physical relaxation in a male. The fact that a woman has such strong biological power in the smells of her feet may seem strange unless you look at it from a purely mechanical perspective. God wasn't being funny... there's definitely a master plan here. Try this one on for size:

During coitus, the optimal position for insemination is with woman in missionary position with feet as far back as possible, which will tilt the hips up into greater reception. This position allows gravity to assist those driven little sperm get to their destination without having to fight gravity and those few extra moments that it will take for the woman to get off of her back and into an upright position (which would allow gravity to drag those little wiggly bastards back toward the floor boards) is extra time for at least one of them to latch onto the ovum if they hadn't succeeded already. Heh. So maybe the best part of you DID run down your mother's leg! Sorry. That joke is so old my grandfather used to use it.

Now, in this position, guess which part of a woman is closest to the man's head? You guessed it, her feet. The sex smells emitted from her feet and the relaxation response it creates in the male partner both contribute to more successful copulation and, as a result, reproduction of the species. (BTW, men emit their greatest concentration of pheremones in their armpits and wonder of wonders, in this position, where is the woman's head closest to?)

Pretty ingenious, I think. So, guys with foot fetishes seem to have a stronger primal sensitivity to basic biological design than anyone gives them credit for.... right up to the point where we start talking about guys with a FF that want said foot up their ass as a prosthetic device. THAT is just twisted psycho-sexual wiring there. Sorry, boys!

Why are some women's feet more of an erogenous hot zone than others? Beats me, really. My feet are so erotically charged that I have had orgasms without removing one stitch of clothing except a shoe and sock during an intense foot play scene. For me though - it is very much about the drive of the boy I am playing with. Just tonguing my tootsies because I order you to is only going to get you so far. Sliding your tongue along my arch like a parched man licking dew off of a wet glass and having this mad affair with my peds as if I weren't even there? I am absolutely throbbing watching the scene.

Which is probably the other thing that I find so hot about foot fetishists. Watching a serious FF having this sexual encounter with my feet is a surreal experience for me. I get to be a voyeur of my own body during a scene. Just distant enough to feel like an observer and still connected enough to have the sensations and experiences during each delicious moment. Rather like interactive porn without taking off my panties! Yum!

My favorite FF likes to take my feet in his hand and explore them first. My feet don't seem tiny until he holds them, then every delicate bone and slender line of them becomes obvious. He buries his nose in my insteps and inhales as if he were breathing in the fragrance of roses or freshly baked bread. Long, adoring moments of inhale and absorption. I like to lay back and watch him lose himself like this. It is very, VERY hot.

Then, he kisses and licks the instep, one at a time and I fight off the urge to close my eyes and lose myself in the sensations. He caresses his face with my feet by placing them across each side of his cheek, the balls and toes of my feet just reaching his eyebrow and forehead, his hands sliding down across small ankle bones and along my calves.

I like to push against him at this point and begin caressing his face and tracing lines along it with my feet. Toes placed against his mouth as if to silence him, knowing his tongue will find its way to the small crease at the base of them and snake their way into the spaces between them. His cock is usually rock hard at this point so while he is holding one wiggly foot between his hands so that he can better devour it, I slip the free foot in his lap and push gently against his raging erection, teasing him.

The more he sucks, nibbles and devours one foot, the more aggressively and deliberately the other foot moves along the throbbing testament of his desire. When he has exhausted the foot in his mouth, he reaches for the fresh foot and I slide my wet toes along his neck and down his chest, stopping momentarily to pinch his nipple between my toes before continuing south to continue my own form of pedal encouragement.

And on and on it goes like this until he is a frenzied animal listening to the commanding, hushed tones issuing from me as we both struggle for some semblance of self control in these final moments of insane arousal. My own clit is usually a giant throbbing erection of its own at this point and I relish the feeling of fiery arousal burning inside of me.

When I finally allow him release, it is because I want to experience it vicariously through him without losing this delicious momentum building inside myself. I have uses for this energy that he could never understand.

Then, it is over all too quickly and he kisses my feet gently and we begin the process of composing ourselves as if nothing had happened. The feeling of gentle affection for my feet, or the person attached, never diminishes.

God, how I love foot fetishists.

Biology wins over social evolution, again but this time, in a good way for a change.

Suspended Animation

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