Secret Confessions of a Smart Girl

So this post over at Sexual Spiritualist got me thinking about the origins of my sexual issues, and how the scene helped save me from a life of complete and utter sexual neurosis (leaving me with only a slightly larger than reasonable share*, because I’ve noticed that still, here I am, a person with a pretty high sex drive who hardly ever actually has any sex.)

I don’t know when I became so afraid of interactive sexuality. I know it must have started young, because I remember blowing off one of my first dates in high school because I was so scared I thought I was going to throw up. I do know I was always highly arousable. I remember frantically masturbating to the romance novels I would borrow from camp counselors, or to the Clan of the Cave Bear, from approximately the age of around 11. Still younger, in third or fourth grade, I remember playing very sexual bondage games with two Filipino girls, and being turned on by playing doctor with my then best friend (although I didn’t understand what the sensations were at the time.)

So when did it change? It was before what I think was my first date, when after I got home he called a friend of mine to ask her out and called me a “frigid bitch,” because I was too nervous to kiss him at the door (This date, for the record, is why I hate the film Broadcast News.) Although that certainly didn’t help, I was clearly already nervous at the time. Maybe it was the stress of junior high school. Maybe it was early onset sex education. Who knows. What it meant was that I didn’t really date much until graduate school, because I was so damn nervous that I might a) have to have sex and b) be expected to know what the hell I was doing in a manner that wasn’t purely theoretical. I remained highly sexual, thinking about sex far more than I thought a girl should and masturbating on a daily basis, I just didn’t touch anyone else - or let them touch me. And then I discovered the scene…

The thing about public masochism that appealed to me was that it seemed so safe. So easy. People would touch me, as I longed for, fleetingly or with great intensity, but only in strictly circumscribed ways and if I said “stop” they would. The best part was that with BDSM I wasn’t expected to know anything. It was okay to be new at things and to be inexperienced. I wouldn’t have to worry about sex, or being laughed at. I wouldn’t have to be concerned about STDs or pregnancy or skill; I could just enjoy sharing time and space with someone. They’d touch me, they’d hurt me, and we’d both enjoy it, and I’d learn things and it would all be fine.

And I got good at it. I was a pretty good bottom, and I could bottom to novice tops and help them, and people actually wanted to play with me, and I developed enough self confidence that my boundaries slowly shifted further and further towards a comfort with sexuality. The scene also gave me the opportunity to learn that there are people to whom I could say things like “I’m nervous about my sexual skills, I really want you to instruct me in these things,” and for whom doing so would be a turn on. But here’s the thing…

I don’t know if I could have gotten there if I’d started off in an area where sex was on the table at scene events. I don’t know if I would have gone to public play spaces, and played with lots of people, and become comfortable with my body if going to those spaces would have meant that I had to actively think about dealing with sex. I don’t know if I would be who I am, sexually and kinkily, if I had “come out” on the west coast.

I know I would still be a masochist. I know I would still be a bottom. I know I would still be queer, but I don’t know how much of it I would be acting on. I know I would still have a vivid fantasy life, but I don’t know how much of it would ever have become reality. It’s possible that had I matured on the west coast, I’d have even fewer issues because I would have been forced to include sex as part of my kink from the beginning. On the other hand it’s also possible that I’d spend even more time alone in my room with my vibrator and my knives. Or that, at this point, I’d identify solely as a lesbian rather than as bisexual.

I don’t know. I know a lot of people who grew up in the West Coat scene, a lot of the people I love grew up out there, but I’m glad I started out where I did. I think that, as Adam says, they both have things to recommend them. But I’m glad I came of age where I did, as late as it might have been. And I’m very thankful for the Baltimore/Washington scene for being as welcoming as it was, and giving me not only some wonderful experiences, but some wonderful friends.

It’s hard to write this stuff, particularly as I get to know more and more of the people who are reading this blog (it was much easier when I was talking to an empty universe full of unknown readers). On the other hand, I think it’s useful. Both for me, as an exercise in vulnerability and thinking things out, and for other people for whom sexuality may not be that easy. Because I know that for a long time, I thought that I was alone in that, and a freak in a bad way, for having so many worries and issues about sex. These days, I know I’m not, and while I would like to be a little more open to the possibility of sexual experiences with a larger number of people, I’m also really happy about a number of things. I’ve never had really bad sex. I lost my virginity pretty late, but did so in two absolutely amazing experiences (both bisexual threesomes, the first of which included just about everything except intercourse, mostly things I had never done before). Most importantly, perhaps, I only have one sexual experience that I even have slight qualms over my choices in. So, while my issues have given me problems they’ve also given me gifts. I choose to remember that. And, maybe, in the new year, I’ll get to be both smarter and have sex more often… You never know

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*Which is why, in the rare case I find someone who I’m actually comfortable having sex with and enjoy having sex with, I kind of want to jump them all the damn time. I need to figure out how to acquire more people like this. Preferably ones who don’t come with Complications and who regularly want to jump me too

An offhand comment on MayMay’s excellent post about meeting and playing with people in clubs got me thinking about the politics of politeness. Specifically, Dev said

A guy (a dom) at my club once yelled at me and called me a “fucking idiot” when I expressed my dislike for men holding doors open for women.

My initial reaction to this was, “Huh. I wonder why he dislikes it,” and then I remembered that I have mixed feelings about it myself.

I don’t believe that politeness should have anything to do with gender (or dominance - unless it somehow fits into your role structure). The vast majority of the time, I think that, when physical ability doesn’t play into it, whoever gets to the door first should open it and hold it - regardless of the gender or even species of the individuals following them. If someone is encumbered, by object or ability, then you make an effort to be the person who gets the door to make their life easier, but it should not simply be based on gender. This is true for any gesture of politeness. You hold a person’s coat while they get into it to make their life easier, not to make a gendered statement (although in that case, sometimes it is female clothing restrictions that may make such help more appreciated, but I have helped older men into their coats on countless occasions as well)

All of that is relatively straightforward, so why is it worth posting about? Because sometimes its not. In my day, I have experienced gestures of politeness that were, on their face, identical, but which prompted strong and opposite reactions. Lets go back to the original example - men opening doors for women. Most of the time, whomever gets to the door opens it, holds it for their companion, their companion enters, and it’s no big deal. Some men, however, make a point of always opening the door for a woman, and do so in a way that it is difficult to take as anything but insulting. Usually these men are doing it in a way that makes certain it’s noticed, and it comes across as incredibly patronizing. “Look,” their grand gesture says, “I am doing this for you. After all, as a woman, you are weak and need to be taken care of and so I gladly take that mantle upon my shoulders.” To which my response is generally rolling my eyes and making certain that they never get the opportunity to make a similar gesture again. Mind you, most of the time I think it’s incredibly rude to take insult at something someone is doing to try and be polite*, but when they’re being aggressive about it (or actually making your life more difficult with their actions), sometimes it’s a difficult desire to repress.

On the opposite end of the spectrum**are those men who can, somehow, make those tiny gestures (door opening, holding a coat, seeing you into a car) insanely flattering and not insulting at all. In my experience, most of these men are older, and from other countries***, although I have to say that I think it mostly has to do with the fact that such gestures are so ingrained into their being that they don’t think about them at all - and yet they otherwise treat women as equals. I used to work with a very high level official in a major international health NGO who just oozed gallantry. In every interaction I ever had with him I somehow ended up feeling both incredibly valued for my intelligence and skill and ridiculously female in an utterly non-patronizing or insulting way. I never figured out how he did it. I kept feeling like it should bother me, but on him it worked. I never felt patronized. I never felt that he didn’t value me as an intelligent colleague first-and-foremost. I just felt appreciated as a woman as well. A fact which I felt I ought to find somewhat anti-feminist, but could never bring myself to since our interactions were always utterly and completely positive (and, I should mention, not even remotely sexual). I miss working with that man. I don’t think I’ve ever had a boss or colleague who made me feel as good about my work as he did, not to mention myself. (His male subordinates loved him just as much, by the way. He was just a good man, generous with both his praise and instruction. He made you want to do your best for him.)

Really, though, I think it should come down to the golden rule - treat others as you would wish to be treated yourself… or possibly even better. Don’t adjust your behavior to suit the gender, adjust it to respect the individual.
–
* The breed of feminist who yell at any men who hold open doors for them piss me off. If you don’t like something that someone is doing out of politeness, at least accept that they are doing it because they are trying to be nice. If the gesture is misguided, perhaps it is worth mentioning to them, but taking insult at kindness is terribly poor form. I really can’t support encouraging rudeness, when conversation could accomplish the same goal. Perhaps saying “Thank you for the gesture, but I don’t feel comfortable accepting it because…” would accomplish your goal more effectively than encouraging them to think of you as some alien species.

**There is a middle ground here, men who are simply being generous when they look at you to ask “do you want me to take that door you’re holding from you,” and accept without question your head shake of “no.” That’s… polite. Especially when it feels like they’d make the same gesture to anyone regardless of gender who had been standing holding the door while 15 people walked into the store ahead of them :).

***Mirehn makes the excellent point that this also may be a matter of my perceptions, and that the behaviors I am perceiving as gendered politeness may not be gendered by the people performing the behaviors.

Sort of like the bat signal.

When I’d turn it on it would be my way of saying to the universe, “I’d like someone to summon me, because they want to do terrible things to me.”

A light like that would be great, since it would avoid one of the biggest hurdles in my finding play partners - namely, the fact that I am often horribly, painfully shy. (And other times I have no problems bouncing up to someone and asking them if they’d be willing to hurt me with stuff… there is no rhyme nor reason to my brain)

The other hurdle I face (although it is one that is not an issue at public parties and is, in fact, one of the reasons why I play so often in public) is that I tend to feel terribly selfish wanting to negotiate play but not sex. I worry that I’m taking a lot from a person without being willing to give anything back.

Plus, the beacon could make a pleasant beeping sound and help me not trip over things in the dark.

I wonder where I could go get one installed…

*beep beep* *beep beep*

I can’t lie to you. It’s freezing right now in my house, but that’s probably a good thing, because otherwise I might actually exploded into steam at Wendy’s recent post on knife play. It was Just That Hot. In fact, I feel decidedly less chilly right now. Perhaps I’ll go read it again, and then I won’t need to dig out the monkey slippers.

This almost entirely content free post brought to you by Knife Sluts Anonymous: We Defy Recognition At The Cutting Edge.

I always find it interesting when the universe gives me a graphic demonstration of the fact that many of the things I fantasize about make me say “Fuck no! Get that thing the hell away from me”* when they happen in real life.

This current logical inconsistency is brought to you by the fact that when I read the most recent Sugasm I got all hot and bothered** over the fucking machines review and site. Fucking machines, on the other side of a computer monitor, are an enormous turn on for me. They push all my “sex against my will***” buttons, with an overtone of sexy impersonal robotic goodness.

I have these fantasies about being kidnapped and drugged and waking up bound to one of those horribly implacable metal machines and being fucked until I scream, hating it and wanting it all at once. It’s one step beyond the fantasy of just being treated as a piece of meat, something to be used for someone else’s pleasure. What could be more degrading than being nothing more than a receptacle for the meaningless spinning of mechanical gears? A person might give in to an attack of conscience , but a machine does exactly what its programmer wants, no mercy, no worry, and no relief. I could beg all I wanted, and it wouldn’t matter in the least.

So the other night when I was reading about various fucking machines, and fantasizing about them, I was somewhat surprised to remember that a few weeks ago someone brandished one at me and I responded, without hesitation “Fuck no! Get that thing the hell away from me.” Then I remembered that that was the second time I had had that reaction… and yet the fantasy persists.

I think a great deal of it has to do that I have very different standards for who I do sexual play with than I do for other types of play. In neither case, was the person with the machine someone who I thought of in that way (although the first time I played with one of people in question, by the time we stopped playing… well lets just say that had he had the machine there he probably could have convinced me, since I was a little Rona shaped puddle of pain and arousal.) Plus, I honestly don’t think it’s ever going to be something that if I am asked, “Do you want to do this?” I’m going to say yes to.

On the other hand… I rather suspect it falls into the insanely hot subcategory of the “You’re going to have to make me” things. Because, although I don’t think it’s ever going to be something that I’m going to admit I want, in the context of a relationship where I had already agreed that things sexual were on the table, where I had negotiated permission for someone to treat me as a sexual object for their own pleasure and release, had even begged for a lack of regard for my own desires, if it was something my partner desired I think my response would be quite different.

No. That’s wrong. I think my response would be exactly the same.

“Fuck No,” I’d say, “Get that thing the hell away from me,” and I rather believe I’d mean it.

But I imagine I’d be horribly disappointed if they didn’t do it anyway.
–
* I believe that is an exact quote.

** It didn’t help that I had only slightly earlier gotten an instant message that started with the phrase “OK, now I have bad thoughts of molesting you and forcing you to do things…” a statement which, for the record, when coming from a person who would and has permission makes every nerve cell in my body sit up and beg. Even after the rest of the statement turned out to be eye-rollingly awful, I went to sleep fantasizing about it last night****. Tease. Cruel, fucking tease…. Um. Which is to say that I was kind of primed when the website showed up on my radar. Yes. That’s where I was going with this footnote.

**Margaret Atwood wrote an absolutely fabulous essay on rape fantasies, which everyone should read.

**** If I’m still this horny after finishing this post, I may end up writing that next. And yes, I just footnoted a footnote. I live dangerously and NONE OF YOU CAN STOP ME

Last night, I had the first of my two scheduled* Christmas dates. This was the one I was most looking forward to, with this phenomenally adorable girl who I met a few weeks ago at Black Rose. She’s not local, but we enjoyed meeting each other so when she said she was coming to New York for the Heeb-free-holidays I jumped on the chance to spend some more time getting to know her. She’s awfully nifty, and we had a lovely evening together, which ended with us being the queer contingent at a large Jewish event in the city.

Now I will wait for those of you who know me at all to stop blinking in confusion, because “large Jewish event in the city” is not something I would normally be expected to be found at. I was raised by Jews, and am culturally Jewish, but it’s not exactly a huge part of my identity. Combine that with the fact that “large event” is code name for “people standing in a bar and not dancing to a great deal of loud music” and it really would take a phenomenally adorable girl to get me in the door… which was, in fact, the sole reason I was there.

T.** kept saying to me, “Do you feel queer?” and I kept responding “Yes,” which the first time she said it was followed by her saying “Even though neither one of us looks particularly queer,” a fact that was a legitimate point at the moment she said it, but which was largely overwhelmed later in the evening by the fact that, given the extent of the touching, we were clearly on a date. Fortunately, and somewhat surprisingly given my experience with the closed-minded nature of much of the Jewish community in the past (which I did not expect to be in force given the particular event we were at - an event at which KinkyJews.com paint stirrers were being handed out), I only caught a few unpleasant glances being sent our way. I, honestly, didn’t feel any less comfortable at the event than I would have had I gone as a single or with a man. So, good on the event organizers, but it remains clear that that sort of gathering really isn’t my cup of tea.

That was a rather long digression from the point of this entry, which was supposed to be about how lovely women are. It’s not, realistically speaking, that dating them is any less frustrating than dating men, but the frustrations, in general, tend to be different. I must say, there is something particularly nice about touching women when they have soft skin, and long hair, and squish in all the really good places. I have an even harder time keeping my hands off my dates when they are women than when they are men… which is saying something***. We’d be dancing and I’d find my hand in the curve of her lower back, or sitting and my hand would be on her thigh near the hem of her dress, which was cut just long enough not to be obscene, and I’d start thinking thoughts that no nice girl should be thinking in a public place. Not to mention the moment when I was walking behind her on the stairs and all of a sudden viscerally got why my friend G. keeps telling me that he likes watching me walk in boots. I tripped over my own feet. God that woman has a fabulous ass.
–
*I just canceled the second one, “a traditional Jewish Christmas of Chinese food and a movie” in favor of staying home, sleeping, and eating soup since my germs decided to come back with a vengeance due to the 6 hours of wandering around in the cold with the cute girl. Which, by the way, was totally worth it.

**T. for “The Phenomenally Adorable Girl.”

***To be perfectly fair, I also have trouble keeping my hands off my friends when I’m out with them. Although I suppose, depending on the friends, its the difference between “physical contact sustains me” and “I wish I could drag you off into a dark corner and do things we might get arrested for.”

ha ha! I have an excuse to put off continuing my problematic pornography, and it’s a good excuse too!

A couple of weeks ago I posted a comment in Mirehn’s blog, because I found his descriptions of his hypnosis experiments absolutely fascinating*. We chatted a bit, in comments and e-mails, about his site, he wandered over here and made some comments on my site, and he sent me an absolutely lovely .wav file trance induction and relaxation exercise, which I enjoyed immensely. Then about a week ago he asked me if I would be interested in experiencing IM hypnosis.

Really… there was no way I was going to end up saying no. My only experience with hypnosis was with a hypnotherapist I saw a year or two ago to try and deal with some travel anxiety, and I found the whole experience incredibly disappointing. In discussing the experience with Mirehn, I found out that hypnosis isn’t supposed to have flashing lights and weird memory effects. It can, but it doesn’t have to. Had the hypnotherapist told me that in advance, so I didn’t spend the entire session thinking “Am I hypnotized? I don’t feel hypnotized? What’s for dinner?” perhaps the experience would have been entirely different.

So, I said yes, in theory, and requested some sort of demonstration that would give me an “ah ha!” moment, because I wasn’t really certain that I believed I could be hypnotized over IM. He agreed, and we made plans to try it out tonight. Then, last night, I was online, and he was online, and there was absolutely nothing I needed to get done and we moved our plans up 22 hours.

He started off with a simple induction, part of which included a cue-word to put me back down into the same state. The induction relaxed me, but did not manage to turn off the analytical brain that I was sure was going to be the plague of the entire experience. When he asked if the cue-word was going to work, I said maybe. Then he brought me up and used the cue-word to bring me back down and I changed my answer to yes. Okay, basic principle had been demonstrated. That was progress.

The next thing that we learned is that my brain is like that well-known army exercise where people have to find flaws in your orders. If there is any loophole that allows my brain to be able to misinterpret a suggestion… it will. It’s also extremely literal and quite picky about capitalization and punctuation on cues. However, the absolutely fascinating thing was that he managed to make certain types of typing slide in and out of my vision. More proof in principle. Once the bugs in the process were worked out, he developed a system of making suggestions that seemed to work as follows (from my perspective)

1. I see the suggestion and make a conscious decision to accept it
2. If I accept the suggestion it goes into force, but I continue to remember the suggestion
3. After about 20-30 seconds the suggestion begins to fade from my attention but remains in force - in other words I would do what it said, but not remember that I had been told to. This was the bit that I had most trouble with. A lot of times the knowledge of the suggestion remained in place, even when I was supposed to forget it. I think this is, in part, a trouble with the medium - when the suggestion remains on screen it is difficult to let it slide into subconsciousness.
4. I get to play around with the suggestion

For me, the biggest hurdle to jump over was letting things work instead of fighting them. I could fight any of the suggestions, but if I decided I wanted to let them work, they did. Eventually I realized subconsciously (as well as consciously) that letting them work was far more interesting and so I started fighting less. There was a very strong aspect of consent to the process - it wasn’t going to work at all if I didn’t only consent to it thoroughly inside my brain to begin with, but also consent to each separate step. Part of that was built into the initial suggestion setup by Mirehn, and part of it was also inherent in the workings of my rather phenomenally paranoid brain.

We proceeded through a variety of suggestions with various interesting mental effects. Some of them worked better than others. For example, making me lose my name (I could almost get it, if I looked for it, but it kept sliding away and I couldn’t focus on my name in the window) worked better than replacing it with another name. The singular most effective suggestion of the evening was the suggestion that making a suggestion would a) send my analytical mind off for a wander where she was allowed to make notes but not interfere and b) put me deeper into trance while I was reading the suggestion. Every single time I got a suggestion after that, my brain went *woosh* to the side - sort of like the “falling” half dreams right before you fall asleep, but spinning instead of down. At some point, Mirehn made a suggestion that had an inadvertent physical effect due to phrasing. The effect in question was not the most pleasant, but it was interesting that it occurred at all, and so when he asked what I wanted to try next I said I was interested in trying out suggestions that had intentional physical effects.

Well the intentional physical effects he generated had inadvertent side effects, because, as I mentioned in my footnote, control is a turn on. Therefore, when he mentioned that the suggestions he was making more commonly had an explicitly sexual component I was forced to admit they had picked up a contextual sexual component by the nature of the triggers he was choosing, and gave him permission to play with it intentionally. Which he did. Quite effectively.

The interesting thing (and I know I keep saying that, but really the whole experience was so very cool on an intellectual level) for me was that at that point I wasn’t fully losing the suggestions from my conscious mind, so I wasn’t entirely sure whether he was just doing a really good job of pushing my buttons or whether the suggestions were being effective without becoming unconscious. Then he gave me an assignment that included an orgasm on a timer, and it worked. Which, for me, was extremely convincing of it being at least in part the suggestions, because I suck at orgasm control. If I turn them off, I have trouble turning them back on**.

To sum up, then, I would say that I found the experiment convincing. It wasn’t always 100% effective, but it was clearly demonstrated to me that I could be made susceptible to suggestion over IM. My analytical brain is squeeing with delight over having a new toy to learn about, and the rest of me just had a damn good time.

Thanks Mirehn!
–
*where fascinating means both interesting and incredibly hot. Even the non-explicitly sexual stuff because, surprise surprise, I have a thing about control.
** I can usually follow a command along the lines of “you can’t come until I say so,” but then often fail at “come now”

The first part of this story can be found here

A few minutes later, as she began tying me to the bed with her beautiful red rope, I thought to myself “How do I myself get into these things?” Or, at least, I believed I had thought it to myself until she answered.

“You are far more concerned with having a clever answer than with the content of what you are actually saying, and then, having made the joke, you have too much pride to back down.”

Damn dangerous woman was not only sexy, she was smart and perceptive. No wonder I liked her, even if it annoyed the hell out of me that she was right. A previous partner had often said to me, “You willingly enact the prophesies that trumpet your own doom.” I’d say I was just way too fond of the sound of my own voice to be careful of what I say.

“Well?” she asked, as she tightened a knot around one of my ankles.

“You are not only extraordinarily beautiful, you are aggravatingly smart.”

She smacked the inside of my thigh with her open palm, “Too late to suck up now.”

“Ow. Fine. You’re right.”

“So are you backing out?”

“No. Because you’re right.”

“That’s what I thought.”

I sighed, as she tied the last knot, “Not, mind you, that I’m saying I dislike getting myself into these situations. Just that they are not, always, precisely the situations I would orchestrate were I orchestrating intentionally.”

“Yes dear. You can shut up now, since I would prefer not to gag you.” She went off to rummage in her toybag.

I stuck out my tongue at the back of her head.

“I saw that. Do it again and I’m putting a clothespin on it.” She pulled one out of her bag.

“Yes ma’am”

“Good girl,” she paused, “of course now I have to find something else to do with this one…”

–
You know, it’s much harder to write erotica when you’ve gotten yourself stuck into a corner that you don’t exactly fantasize about. On the other hand, it’s much easier to write the dialog so I suppose it balances out. I think I’m going to stop for now until I’m inspired again.

“I’m Bondage, Jane Bondage.”

I raised my eyebrows, and thought for a moment how much more effective the gesture would be if I could figure out how to do that one side at a time. “You’re not dressed for it.”

“That’s your response?”

Not to say that she wasn’t hot. She was. Short, pixie cut hair, flashing eyes, nice cranberry colored rope, but the clothing was all wrong. “I hate James Bond movies, haven’t I told you? Still, he wouldn’t be caught dead in that shirt. I’m pretty sure he’s strictly a three piece suit man.”

“You’re being needlessly pedantic.”

“It’s not needless. I refuse to set myself up to be called Pussy Galore. You know,” I said, as she began to walk towards me… absolutely adorable with her flashing eyes and kitten-like threatening demeanor, “when I agreed to experiment with role-play, I wasn’t really thinking that we were going to start with ‘Bad Movies 101′”

She grabbed my hair in her right hand and pulled my head back. I rolled my eyes at the ceiling as she said, “I like James Bond movies.”

“Yes, well, for all I know you also like gefilte fish. Neither of these things is really something you should be bragging about.”

“Brat!” she sunk her teeth into the muscles of my left pec until I screamed.

“You rang?”

She laughed and sat down on the bed, “Alright then, what do you suggest?”

“Um… I don’t know. Teacher and student? Police officer and prostitute? Inquisitor and witch? Professor and the madman?”

“I absolutely refuse to do OED roleplay.”

“Baby, the fact that you caught that is why I find you so hot.”

“Really? Prove it.”

I found the evil grin on her face slightly disturbing, so I hesitated a moment before asking, “What exactly do you have in mind?”

“Pussy galore.”

Once again, I bemoaned my lack of ability to raise an eyebrow and had to settle for looking mystified. Since I strongly suspected that whatever I had gotten myself into, I had done so with my smart mouth I decided that, for once, discretion was the better part of valor and shut up and waited for an explanation.

“You’ve heard about my interest in forced orgasm…”

I gulped, nodded nervously, and took a step away from her. She was instantly up on her feet, and pushing me against the wall.

I felt the weight of her body pushing into mine, “You give me pussy galore, and I won’t make you call me Jane.”

“You’ll let me hurt you,” she continued, and I felt her fingers dig into my hip inside the waistband of my jeans, “but you haven’t yet let me fuck you. Not like I want to.” My head fell back as my breathing started to go shallow. “You say you find me hot. I can smell your desire on you. I bet that if I unbuttoned these pants of yours I’d find you so wet that my fingers would just slip inside.” I moaned. “I want to hurt you. I want to use you until you beg me to stop and then I want to make you scream.” She licked my neck, and then stepped away so quickly I actually stumbled to the ground. “And I want you to ask me to do it.”

I dropped my eyes to the floor for a moment as I caught my breath and thought about it.

She waited.

I looked up at her, wide eyed and breathless, and said, “Please.”

Apparently, it’s possible to make smart-ass comments in your link mouse-overs. Instinctually I suppose I knew this, but it required recent exposure to Eileen to motivate me to figure out how. More substantive post to follow. I’m trying to get worked up to write porn.