This is what I asked for:
Come in.
Take me with urgency - feigned passion or real.
Rip my clothes off, shove me up against the wall, bury your teeth in my shoulder, and fuck me hard.
When you’re done, let me slide to the floor, take the cash off the table by the door, and leave.
When push comes to shove, I always end up paying for what I want. Sometimes it’s easier to do it in cash.
It was a quality of life issue.
The company was known for the many benefits it provided its employees - video games, free food, places to nap - but there was one area in which its services were lacking…. sex.
It was a strange oversight, really. Engineers spend a lot of time tensely staring at their screens waiting for code to compile and processes to run. A system of frustration relief could only benefit the company’s bottom line. After all, the longer you can keep a programmer at his workstations, the more coding that actually gets done.
It only took the right person’s vision to see oversight as opportunity, and, in a moment of brilliant inspiration, Project Underware was born.
I was one of the first hires. I suspect I was an obvious choice. Big brains turn me on. All it takes to get me on my knees is a facility with problem solving and an elegant use of command structure. In my experience, programmers have an enormous facility with commands.
The workers of Project Underware provide a multitude of services: A cunt to fuck, for quick release. A back to whip, meditatively, while searching for an answer. An ass for reaming, literally, on a frustrating day.
My favorite days, however, are those spent on my knees in the dark, deep wells of computer laden desks. I wait, patiently for the sound of a zipper being opened or fabric being raised and the feeling of a hand fisted in my hair drawing me towards service. I love the sensation of a cock growing hard in my mouth or a cunt growing wet under my tongue, feeling the urgency of their arousal wax and wane as they are drawn over and over again into the intellectual stimulation of their work. It thrills me, being an invisible mouth, a silent pair of hands, urging them to distraction, to completion, or to genius. I love that is is my work to bring them joy with theirs.
He was a waffle man.
When he got up in the morning, he was looking for crevices to fill, holes to overflow with the sweet, sticky syrup that spoke silently of satisfaction.
He liked to take his tongue and sweep it deep inside the indentations crafted by hand and nature. The heat on his face would make him sweat with desire in the moments before contact. Just the scent would arouse him as it reached his nose. It spoke of longing, a body waiting to be fulfilled and then devoured.
That first penetration, each morning, brought a rush of blood to his cheeks. Pushing, pushing, until he could slip under the surface with a shock and then a sigh. Taking each piece inside him, and savoring the textures of both the skin and the softness underneath. Teeth biting. Tongue tasting. Hands strong enough to rip everything apart, but holding back for simple surrender, a delicate dissection of a simple joy.
And then there was the bacon…
I am out of spoons.
I really, really need someone to tie me up and beat the crap out of me so that I can have a nice fighting and screaming fit about something that is completely and utterly controllable.
Yes, I do recognize that I seem to be a bit of a stereotype at the moment. But hey, it’s a stereotype usually applied to men… I’m SPECIAL.
There are things that I do not want to like that I apparently do.
In fact, there are things that I object to on principal that I want desperately in the heat of the moment…
One of my partners has taken to cutting off my air supply during sex*.
I, in general, do not do breath play. It freaks me out, and it generally falls outside what I am comfortable with in terms of “safe.” However, in this particular situation… my god is it hot.
It’s not the lack of air. I know people who get off on the oxygen deprivation, but I’m not one of them.
It’s the control.
It’s the look he gets in his eyes from doing something that gives him that much power.
It’s discovering whether, in any given moment, my instinct is to fight or give in.
–
*Not to the point where I pass out and using relatively safe techniques. Still, kids, do not try this at home.
I don’t usually start out naked.
It’s not because I’m shy, although I am.
I have a reasonably nice body. I just don’t usually feel comfortable showing it unless a beating is imminent, or I am happily glowing after some violent attention.
I’m fine being naked in public after I’ve been playing, or in private after I’ve been thoroughly fucked, but… there’s a utility to that. It feels justifiable. It feels wanted.
Starting out that way just feels deviant.
“You’ll spend the party naked, kneeling at my feet, doing whatever I ask of you, and nothing more.”
Both terror and turn on to think of being so exposed.
It makes me an object.
It’s difficult to be self possessed when I’m clad solely in my hair, and so my self belongs to her. Which, when it comes down to it, I suspect is rather the point.
It makes it hard to talk.
I can’t be naked in public like this and not in subspace. I can’t be in subspace and engaged in neutral conversation. Instead, voices buzz around me like bees. They drone, they spin, and they rarely do anything that requires a response.
It makes it impossible to say “no.”
That word that was stripped away from me hours earlier along with my clothing. Having agreed to provide service, my own choices become subservient to her own.
I serve.
As a vehicle: for food, drinks, and whims.
As a vessel: to be filled with fingers, needles, and desire.
As a target: for whips, canes, and words.
As an audience: for someone else’s destruction.
As a prize: in a somewhat unwholesome bet.
I am exposed.
As vulnerable
As willing.
As someone who takes pleasure in being told what to do.
Which is how I ended up here.
Even though I don’t usually start out naked.
–
This was inspired by a conversation a few weeks ago, and then finally got off the ground when a friend said, this morning, “I don’t usually start out naked, but when I do it tends to be memorable.”
I’m not one of those people so comfortable in their skin that I can go to a play party, shuck off my clothes, and wander around happily nude. I, quite often, fail to have any desire to put my clothing back on after it has come off for a scene, but that’s different than having the balls to remove it up front. But, because of that awkwardness, my lingering discomfort, and my excessively Western association of nudity with sex, it’s a really hot concept to me to be denied the safety of clothing in a circumstance where I don’t know if that physical vulnerability is going to be taken advantage of or not.
I wish I could remember whose blog I was reading the other day when she was talking about how she couldn’t wait for spring so that it wouldn’t be stocking weather anymore and her partner could just put his hand under her skirt and reach inside her.
I have fantasies about that. Having a partner who assumes access to my body, and takes it because they want it. The sort of relationship where they feel comfortable saying “don’t wear anything under your clothes tonight,” or pulling me into a dark alley to fuck my mouth. Where we feel so much heat for each other that occasionally we stop in the middle of a conversation to have violent, passionate, sex on the floor.
I just like the thought of being wanted by someone who feels free to, and wants to, take. I like it, particularly, because I enjoy feeling secure enough in someone’ s desire to express my own desire for them. Asking for sexual things is hard for me. I’m happy to be made to beg, but it’s nice to know that sometimes they are going to say “yes.”
I’m on my knees.
That’s always how it starts. Head bowed, striving for stillness, impatient with longing from only the touch of your eyes.
I shiver when you don’t touch me. Hands behind my back, spine straight, breasts thrust forward, legs apart, your patience makes me mad.
I’m torturing myself.
If I move, you’ll touch me, but stillness is a point of pride. I will not purposely fail when I have been requested to succeed.
I hear you moving, gathering objects, gathering yourself, who can tell. It’s a game to you, I know. Which of us can control our desire longer.
Sadist.
I feel you step up close before me. The heat of your body is too much temptation. In trying not to lean forward, I pull back instead.
The crack of your hand across my face feels so right. I want you to do it again, and grabbing my hair in your fist to pull my head back you oblige me. Twice. Three times. Make me cry. Please. Just one more.
You step away.
You say if I want you to touch me, I have to crawl.
I do.
You say that if I want your attention, I will hold my legs open wide, wider, so that you can put alligator clips on my labia.
I beg, please.
You tie them to my thighs. Pain, control, and exposure, all at once.
What, I wonder, would it be like to be fucked like this: raw, exposed, and unbearably open.
I wonder if it would hurt beautifully or awfully.
I wonder if I’m going to find out.
Later. Both spent. Thoroughly fucked, violently used, sore of jaw and hip and places deeper, touched and violated, I ask.
Will you beat me now?
Please?
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