Secret Confessions of a Smart Girl

(and yes, that was sung to the tune of Rawhide)

I’m very excited, because I have a caning date for Sunday. This makes me happy for several reasons. The first is the caning itself. I really like being caned. The second is getting to see the caner, who is a Delightful Human Being. The third is that I get to consciously watch the progression of my marks over the period of a week to see what I have to worry about on filming day before I’m scheduled to have the awkward conversation with my director. So, and I’m sure this will greatly distress my caner, I need to end up with some really impressive marks. You know, for the sake of science. Then, maybe I won’t have to say to my director and A.D. “How exactly will the partially nude shots be set up, and will whip marks be a problem for you on the day of the shoot?” To quote He Who Shall Aid Me in My Experiment “You just managed to make our scene practical. I am amazed.” Yes. It’s true, world. When it comes to pointless justifications… I’m Just That Good.

Speaking of which, I now have two good reasons to make blondies with dark chocolate chips (wanting to eat them is a reason, but it isn’t good.) I shall keep some, bring some to the Wielder of Destructive Implements, and send the rest to The Boy Formerly Known as Crush. When people I care about are distressed I want to make them baked goods. I’m just that sort of a girl, and I have the Donna Reed dress to prove it.

I have a million things to do today. I’m stressed over a film shoot, I have to find a substitute for my absent dog sitter, and I can’t manage to get out of bed because I’m thinking about sex. As I’ve mentioned in the past, I’m not a morning person. One of the side effects of not being a morning person is that if I’m lying in bed fantasizing my mind starts to wander just as it gets to the good parts. Or, alternatively, I end up on an endless loop of revisions until the early part of the fantasy is letter perfect, but I don’t actually get thoroughly and debasingly fucked. It’s not only extremely frustrating, it takes a long time. And, on mornings like this when I have Things to Do, it means I have to force myself out of bed and into the world at large when I’d rather would far rather lie there half asleep, touching myself just enough to enhance my imagination.

But I am responsible woman, and I have dragged myself out of bed, walked the dog, and sat down at the computer to exorcise the fantasy from my fevered brain so that I can then throw myself into the shower and make myself pretty in time to go be brilliant and glamorous on film.

————

“I’ll give you a choice,” he said, while we were walking to the car after I picked him up at the airport. “You can suck me off here, in the car, before we drive home, and then maybe I’ll want to fuck you when we get there, or you can wait until we get home and suck me off there and then I’ll just go to sleep afterwards.”

He’d been gone for a month. There wasn’t really any choice at all. I blushed, and muttered softly, “here please.”

“What did you say?” he asked, leaning against the side of the car where it was parked in the middle of the crowded parking lot.

I knelt down on the cold concrete and looked up at him, “Here please.”

“Good girl,” he said, and I moaned softly as his hand went to the button of his pants…

I used to have a t-shirt that said “Bite me, literally.” It was better than any pick-up line. I got nibbled on constantly. Once, at DragonCon, a bunch of Klingons passed me around like a mid-afternoon snack. I like being bitten. It’s a nice combination of intimacy and pain.

I wonder what happened to that shirt.

In the good old days, when I was spending a great deal more time in scene space, I used to do a lot of what I call “stunt bottoming.” For those of you who do not have a direct line to the translation center of my brain, what I call “stunt bottoming” is bottoming to someone who is learning a new trick. A lot of times I did this because that “someone” was a hot girl, and any excuse to play with a hot girl is a good excuse to play with a hot girl, but I also did it because it pings the ‘helpful’ aspect of my personality… and I’m good at it.

What I think makes me useful as a stunt bottom, or teaching tool, is that I’m quite capable of having a lovely time being hit with things, or poked with things, or otherwise manipulated, without being in any sort of headspace that impairs my ability to communicate. I’m also perfectly comfortable giving not just descriptive feedback “that feels like ‘x’“, but constructive feedback “you’re starting to wrap a little on my neck,” to tops without feeling, somehow, that I’m infringing on their toply prerogatives. Plus, as I told the girl whose topping virginity I took a few months ago, “I’m not going to get mad at you if you make a mistake and miss a target or hit me too hard. I can take care of myself.”

*sigh* I miss having a fabulous local play space. It’s fun to make new friends and get hit by people.

When I lived in Baltimore, I used to spend a lot of time at the best playspace in the world. That’s not its name, of course, but if you’ve been there you know where I mean, and if you haven’t it’s no longer open to the public. TBPITW was run by a female couple, and I adored both of them. I helped out, a lot, at the space and I also played with one of them quite frequently. Sometimes, explicitly, and other times she’d just come up and choke me before moving on to do something else. It was… comfortable. There were lots of incredibly hot women there, and I loved playing with them, and hanging out with them, and making out with them… well you get the picture. It amused me to no end that the owners of TBPITW insisted that I was really gay. I maintained, and still do, my bisexuality, but I was never annoyed by this insistence, which was always made with good humor. If anything, I was flattered. The dykes I respected accepted me as one of their own. Even if the local lesbian leather organization did not. When I tried to spend time at the Baltimore leather women’s group I almost always felt… decidedly unwelcome. Not everyone made me feel that way, not at all, but I never just never felt like I fit in. I wasn’t sure what it was, if it was my girlyness, my shyness, my admitted bisexuality, or just me rubbing people the wrong way. Maybe it was all three.

Fast forward to about six months ago when I nervously made my first forays into the local women’s leather organization in New York. It was so much more welcoming. I met a ton of really amazing women, and even started dating one of them. It was nice. It is nice. Other than the fact that I frequently feel like an old lady, I feel like I fit in much better than I did with the women’s group in Baltimore. I’m kind of enjoying it. Even though I still firmly insist upon my identification as bisexual.

Methinks the lady doth protest too much. Since the “lady” is me, it’s probably a good bet that I’m right. Unfortunately, I already wrote the obvious post for a half awake girl, so instead I’m going to talk about what I was doing on the Internet last night. No, I did not give in to my desire to once again be a web cam girl. Instead, I got sucked into a web site that was selling fucking machines.

I find them interesting. I also find them, in the abstract, somewhat hot. I say in the abstract, because when, in the past, I’ve had the opportunity to try out the Sybian; I’ve declined. Now, part of that is probably due to my lack of comfort, at the time, with my own sexuality, but in a conversation last night I realized that there was something else going on. I don’t want to fuck a machine. I want a machine to fuck me.

The machines that I found exciting, were the ones that would be like a robot pounding away. In particular, there was a terribly arousing looking machine where the “victim” was shackled into a metal rack that held her on her hands and knees while the machine fucked her from behind. Hot.

I’m falling asleep at the keyboard so my defenses are low enough that I have to admit that I have no idea where this obsession with fucking that fills this blog has come from. I mean, I like penetration, but, on the list of sensations that turn me on, actual fucking is probably pretty low. Why, then, is it such a mental button? I think about it all the time. I suspect that some of it is the intimacy. More, probably, is that it speaks to physical desire. But neither of those things explains the attraction of the machines.

Realistically speaking, being fucked by a machine probably wouldn’t be that enjoyable of an experience - at least not from a purely physical standpoint. The machine I’ve turned down, the Sybian, is actually the one best designed for female pleasure. So, then, presumably the attraction is psychological. I don’t want to use the machine to get off, I want it to be used on me as a game for someone else. In fact, the thought of writhing to orgasm on a Sybian, with my hands on the controls, is hardly appealing at all. On the other hand, the thought of being held on it, whether or not I want to be there, with someone pushing buttons just to see what they make me do… is actually kind of hot.

Once again, it’s all about the thought of being used as a sex toy. In this case, not even used as one for someone else’s physical pleasure, just for their amusement. I’m far more comfortable with expressions of my sexuality, particularly public ones, when they’re not about my pleasure. Someone else’s pleasure, sure. My humiliation, great. But if it’s about me getting off, then all of a sudden it becomes stressful instead of exciting or fun. Too much pressure. So much of orgasm is psychological, and, for me, having to be goal oriented for myself is not a terribly conducive head space.

———-

He rolled off me satiated, and got up to get a drink of water.

When he returned, I was still lying on the bed. He touched my arm and I turned towards him hopefully, writhing slightly under his gaze.

“Why you little slut. That wasn’t enough for you?,” he leaned down to breathe the next words in my ear, “What, do you want me to fuck you again?”

I moaned at the feeling of his breath on my skin.

“I’m not a teenager anymore, and I’m tired. Me, inside you, is something you are not going to get.”

I tried not to show my disappointment, but I must have failed.

He laughed, cruelly, “I’m going to give you what you think you want, and you’re not going to like it one bit.”

Pulling me up by my hair, he dragged me into the other room where he pushed me over the ottoman, and than bound my wrists to and used a bar to separate my knees. First shoving two fingers in my cunt, he then pulled them out and came around to wipe them on my cheek. “So wet,” he said, “the little slut thinks she wants more. She thinks a good fucking is exactly what she desires.” He fisted his hand tightly in my hair again and whispered in my ear, “she’s wrong.”

I heard him leave the room for a moment, and then come back dragging a heavy object. The next thing I felt was a dildo pushing between my legs. He thrust it in deeply, until it was snug up against my cervix, and then I heard the sound of metal dials being set. “Be careful what you wish for,” he continued, and then simultaneously two things happened. I heard a motor start up, and I felt the dildo start pulling out.

In and out, the dildo was relentless. The sensation was incredible, but it wasn’t giving me what I needed. With each stroke I grew hotter, and more aroused, but with no other stimulation, it wasn’t enough to get me off. It continued for what seemed like hours, the only interruptions when he came back into the room at the sound of my whimpering to add some artificial lubricant and whisper cruel chastisements in my ear.

When, eventually, he turned the machine off, I lay on the floor and cried.

“I’m ready to fuck you again,” he said, and I was torn between wanting to deny him and desperately hoping that him doing so would provide me some form of release.

He flipped me over, and, as he entered me, he pressed his teeth against my neck and his thumb against my clit and I came, screaming, the raw sensation of him inside me pushing me over the edge again and again.

It’s the good kind of love, too. A solid mixture of appreciation for her intelligence, admiration of her wit, and lust for her incredibly sexy body. In other words… last night I went to see her burlesque show, “Margaret Cho’s Sensuous Woman.”

I had a fabulous time. The show is smart. I’ve always loved Margaret’s standup, and it was a blast to see her do other things (dance, strip, be silly). The other members of her cast were also fabulous. The one disappointment was that the comedian who I like so much on LOGO did pretty much the same act I had already seen on TV. It was still funny, but once I figured out why I knew where all the jokes were going I was kind of disappointed.

All things considered, though, I think the show was very well done. It was funny, queer, and sexy. I also loved that there were a bevy of gorgeous women, and one stunning man, and not one of them fit the “standard” image of American beauty. Which, as Margaret Cho said, was part of the point of the show. Some idiot radio show host actually said to her “What would you do if one morning you woke up and you were beautiful?” She talks about it here, and that discussion doesn’t hold a candle to what she had to say about it in the show. Where she stood, wearing little more than tassels in front of a room full of people… all of whom thought that she was fucking gorgeous.

I recommend the show highly. It’s fun, sexy, and the audience is a show in and unto themselves. Everything from adorable baby dykes perched on each others’ laps to older straight couples who sit in the lounge wondering what they’ve gotten themselves into. Plus, the venue is pretty damn awesome. A sight to behold, and you can drink during the main event. Go, if you can, before it goes away. It will make you laugh, it will make you sigh, and, maybe best of all, it will make you feel beautiful.

I got my camera back the other day, and I am suffused by an overwhelming desire to rip off my clothes in front of it. Spend enough of your life being the good girl, and the desire to be bad becomes almost irresistible. Spend enough time being ignored, and all you want in the world is to be looked at. I set the tripod up tonight in the guest bedroom, hooked the camera to the computer, and started taking off my clothes. I discovered once again that just having the camera recording is an enormous turn on, even when there’s nobody on the other end to see. I don’t know how I ever questioned having an exhibitionist side. I have these intense fantasies about fulfilling anonymous strangers’ sexual desires. Doing anything they ask of me, while they watch, safely, from miles away. I think about the things they’d have me do, and wish that I wasn’t quite so concerned about propriety. Dream that I could make some random person’s night by giving them exactly what they want.

That was the homework I got at the production meeting on Saturday. So this morning, in lieu of getting anything productive written, I’ve been trolling sex addiction web pages for information. It’s a bad sign, I suspect, that I’m finding them a turn on. I’m making mental notes about characteristic behaviors, and realizing that they are all things that my reptilian hindbrain has frequently asked to do - only to be soundly nixed by the rest of my central processing unit. Basically, it seems that to play a sex addict I have to turn off the tight rein I usually have on my baser instincts, and then feel horrible about the things that makes me do. Not, all things considered, that difficult of an assignment. Well, at least not the first part. Especially given the fact that I’ve been fantasizing about taking off my clothes on camera again quite often during the past few days (all the ‘are you a sex addict’ quizzes ask if you’re drawn to participate in phone sex.) As I said to my director, “thanks for giving me one of very few addictions I have a hope in hell of understanding,” although I didn’t necessarily think it would be quite this easy*.

*I’m clearly not a sex addict, but it’s an area where I can clearly see how simple it would be to cross the line. This isn’t the case with drugs, cigarettes, or alcohol, since I’ve never had any real desire to use those substances… let alone abuse them.

Hopefully literally, because I need to get this post written before I leave for my afternoon meeting. My weekend guests/roomies will be here by the time I return, and I can’t write dirty things while they’re around. It would just be wrong. Like the phrase I woke up with in my head this morning, “he burns with the banked fires of one thousand mewing kittens.” What is that supposed to mean? I think the appropriate metaphor is “blazing suns.” Kittens don’t have a lot of banked fires. Not even the really silly ones who keep sticking their whiskers in the candle flames. Anyway, I got up from bed and thought ‘am I supposed to write porn starting with this? It’s going to have to be damned silly porn…’ So what the heck. It’s worth a shot.

———–

His eyes burned with the banked fires of a thousand mewing kittens. There was something in them that spoke of both incandescent rage and humbling helplessness. You wouldn’t want to get in the way of someone with eyes like that. You’d never know whether to fear him or to draw him into your lap and let him cry.

———-

Well that’s never going to work. Can’t start porn with an image of mewing kittens. Well, you probably can, but it’s not going to be any sort of porn that I either want to read or write. Time to rethink. Lets see. I’m feeling pretty fetching today, and I kind of have the hots for one of the women who is going to be at this meeting in a purely physical “I want to get her alone in an alley” way. I’m going to pre-write some history.

———

It was the second time we met. The first time we’d sat across the room from each other. Our eyes kept meeting, and holding, as though we were the only two people there who recognized what a fabulous joke this all was. She was the only one in the room who I hadn’t met before, or worked with, and she was gorgeous. Very much my type. Tall, gothic, with fabulous knee high leather boots and a mouth that looked like it could very easily sport fangs. Plus, she had a sense of humor. There’s nothing like a gorgeous woman with flashing eyes and a natural affinity for sarcasm. Sitting there, I felt like we made some sort of connection, but I didn’t have time to explore it and when the meeting was over had to rush out to someplace else.

This time, however, was different. Thirteen of us in a diner, and she made sure to snag the seat in the booth next to me. She was wearing the boots again. I was seriously outclassed. I might look pretty good in my low cut shirt and dark blue jeans, but I’d chosen footwear for puddle avoidance rather than impressing gorgeous goth girls and was glad my legs were hidden under the table. We chatted a bit, flirted the way girls do when we don’t know if we’re just discussing the universe at large or have a mutual agenda, and then it was time to discuss the film.

Sex, drugs, and rock ‘n roll. Well, at least the first two. I was waiting to see what the set-up would be. All I could think was ‘out of everyone in this room, the person I’d most want to have a sex scene with is her, but there’s no way that’s going to fly. I don’t see the director thinking that lesbian sex is going to give him the raw desperation he’s looking for. Show what little he knows.‘ The conversation veered off to one of its usual inane tangents with yet another unsubtle plea for money, and as we once again caught each others’ eye I felt her hand brush my thigh under the table. I quirked my eyebrow at her, dropped my hand to press hers to my leg, and smiled. Apparently she wasn’t straight after all, I hadn’t been sure. Yes she put out a vibe that made me want to end up out with her in a back alley, but it might have been undirected.

The meeting was endless, as these things are, made worse by the fact that I could feel the heat of her leg next to mine and her hand burning on my thigh. Not to mention the distraction of her truly magnificent breasts. She was much more interesting to look at than the director, who just kept talking and talking.

Eventually the meeting was over and people started to leave. I went to the ladies room to give the others a chance to depart so that we wouldn’t have to walk to the subway with the rest of the crowd. When I came back out, she was still there.

‘Oh good, you waited,” I grabbed my jacket and put it on to shield myself from the rain.

“Yeah, come on,” she said and I followed her out the door.

“My car is down the…” I cut off as she pulled me into a side alley and pushed me back against the bricks, “Oh,” I said, and then fisted my hands in her hair as she brought her head down to mine.

It was a few minutes later when we came up for air. “I’m not looking for anything long term,” she said as she wrapped my hair around her hands and pulled my head back, “are you okay with that?”

“I don’t care if I never see you after this movie is done, but if you leave right now I’m going to be seriously disappointed,” I moaned as she put her teeth to the curve at the base of my neck, “so please don’t stop,” and then she bit me and I let my head fall back and growled, “more.”

I started to run my hands over the curve of her ass, but she grabbed my wrists with one of her hands and held them above my head, “This is my show.”

———

So much for quick and dirty. I had to stop to go to my meeting, where I discovered I will in fact be playing a sex addict. So, sometime before BRXX I’m going to be having an awkward conversation with my director about whether my being marked up will add to the verisimilitude of the part or if I have to … um… restrain myself. I hope he votes for the first. I’d rather have to deal with embarrassing questions than have to worry about marks. Also, sadly, I discovered two things. First, the girl for whom I was lusting was not at the meeting, and second she has a boyfriend. A vampire boyfriend. I’m going to have to warp the story. Because, really, how could I resist?

———

“Well, well,” The alley darkened, and I heard a deep male voice speaking from the entrance, “What have we here?”

Cara spoke without looking away, “Look, darling! I found a toy! I want to play with her a while. You don’t mind do you?”

“I don’t know,” he said coming closer, “Let me see her.”

Cara stepped to my far side, and brought my wrists down behind my back so that I was standing with my shoulder blades pressed up against her breasts facing her boyfriend. He reached out a hand towards my face and I noticed that his nails were long and sharpened.

As he scratched a line from my cheekbone to my lip, I met his dark gaze solidly with my own. “No,” he said, “I don’t mind. At least not if you let me share.”

“It seems only fair,” Cara said, “you let me share last time, and she won’t object.” She took my ear lobe in her teeth and bit down slowly until I squirmed, “Will you?”

“Um. No.” All the blood had rushed out of my head, and so I stumbled a bit over the words. “I mean, yes. I mean. I don’t object. Whatever you want.”

He grabbed my hair and jerked my head back to stare up at him. “Whatever we want?”

I gasped, and my eyes closed for a moment, “Well, within reason.” I managed to get out, “and I’ll let you know if you’re crossing that line for anything that wouldn’t be a capital offense in the state of New York.”

“Fair enough,” she said.

“Fair enough,” he repeated, “Would you like me to hold her for you, darling? You looked like you were enjoying yourself when I arrived.”

“That would be delightful,” she said and spun me over so he could he pull me back against him, with my arms wrapped backward around his neck. “I do think, however, that she’s wearing far too many clothes, and now that you’re here it seems safe enough to do this,” she pulled my shirt and bra together up over my head and left them still restraining arms. “Nice,” she said, reaching out and grabbing my right nipple in the fingers of her left hand.”

“Not as nice as yours,” he replied.

“No,” she said, as she began to play with my breasts with her hands. “But, then again, I don’t get to do this to mine, do I?” she asked and then sucked one of my nipples into her mouth and bit down hard.

I moaned, and squirmed up against the man I hadn’t even been introduced to as she first held and then futher increased the pressure.

“No,” he admitted, and wrapped his free arm around my waist to hold me more firmly against him, “I suppose you don’t.” I could feel his arousal growing as he continued, “She seems to like it though.”

Cara stepped back for a moment, and smiled, “Appearances can be deceiving. Maybe you should check.” She ran her nails down my chest, and turned her attention to the other breast. “I need to even things out, anyway,” and she bit down again.

As I writhed in arousal and pain, I felt her boyfriend’s hand slip down lower on my stomach to the button of my jeans. He opened them, and then pushed them down towards my ankles, kicking my legs slightly apart with his feet. I felt his hand slide between my legs and he stroked the tip of one sharp nail along the soaking wet seam of my panties making me shiver, “Yes, I think you could say she’s enjoying it.”

————-

And another enforced break as the weekend roomies show up, we discuss our weeks, and we take some time to play with dogs. This is a really tough environment to write porn in. Every time I finally start getting into it I get distracted! While I’m here, though, being distracted, I want to mention that I have noticed a large number of ads in the Craigslist casual encounters section where men are looking for girls to finger in the bathroom at Starbucks (or the erotic books section at Borders, or an elevator.) Is this something that people actually do? I mean, it seems kind of hot, but extremely unlikely. Sort of along the lines of the generic “Latin dancing with someone and then getting pulled into the back hallway to suck them off” impractical fantasy. Is that a generic fantasy? I can’t imagine that it’s not. Partner dancing is such an enormous turn on. Anyway, now that I’m back in the mood…

————-

“Why, you’re quite a little slut, aren’t you Rona?” Cara stood up, and leaned back against the wall. “Why don’t you take over for a little while, Michael. I’ll just stand over here and,”I saw her hand snaking down into her own pants, “watch.”

“Are you sure?” Michael, asked while slipping his fingers beneath the cloth to pinch at my clit with his nails and make me squirm. “I’m sure she’d be happy use that mouth of hers for something other than moaning.”

I started to nod, when he pushed a finger inside me so suddenly that I gasped and came. My knees went weak and I couldn’t help shuddering as the sharpened nail of his thumb continued to scratch along the sides of my clit.

“Mmmm. I think I’m enjoying the show a little too much,” she said. “Do what you want with her. Bite her, fuck her, whatever you want. What I want is to watch you leave her on the ground in the alley, half naked, covered in her own fluids, looking like a whore, trying to pull her clothes back on before anyone can see, while you take me home for the rest of the night.”

“Cara, darling, you are a woman after my own heart.”

“After it? Hell, I have it.” I opened my eyes again to see her smiling with satisfaction, hand still moving between her legs. “So what are you going to do with her?”

“I don’t know,” he pushed me up against the wall, so I could feel the rough bricks scraping against my nipples and the bruises forming on my breasts, and then he ground his hard cock into my ass. “I could have her suck me off, but I think I want to get my teeth in her neck.”

I whimpered when he stepped away from me, and I felt the cold air whisper against my skin. “Don’t move,” he commanded, and I dropped my eyes and listened to the sound of a condom wrapper being ripped open and his zipper being pulled down. He kicked my legs farther apart and bent me farther towards the wall as he worked his way into me. Then he started fucking me. Deep, and hard, until I could feel the rough fabric of his pants scraping against my thighs. I placed my hands against the wall to keep my balance, and as I began to feel his rhythm change, one of his hands fisted in my hair, drew my head back, and he bit down slowly and deeply into my neck. Then, just as his hips stiffened in orgasm, I heard a pop as his teeth penetrated the the skin at the base of my throat. Three more thrusts, three deep sucking sensations against my neck, and he pulled out; his cock slipping from me as his canines withdrew from my skin.

I fell to the dirty pavement of the alley, and heard him say to Cara, “Was it good for you?”

“Oh yes,” she responded, and I could hear her breath slowly returning to normal, “and just look at her now. Naked and helpless.” I heard their lips meet in what sounded like a passionate kiss, “and you taste of fresh blood. Darling,” she moaned, “it’s time for you to take me home.”

Their footsteps echoed against the pavement as they retreated down the alley. I pulled myself together, as best I could, and headed back to my car for the drive home.