the boy, rook

Dinner is Served

A few weeks after our introductory encounter, my Dom/switch friend, “Rick,” and I met again. This time, he’d asked his boyfriend about my serving both of them, and his response was “Well, could he make and serve us dinner? It seems selfish but it’s kind of what I want.” Done deal!

So I was to be the houseboy for the evening. The boyfriend works late on Saturday evenings, so I came over early soon as I was done with my own tasks for that day. Just like last time, I went inside the front door and immediately stripped to my jock strap. My collar was waiting for me, so I put it on and went to find Sir.

He was in his office, working. I knelt before him as he took out his cock and I greeted him with a deep, long suck all while he continued to work. I tried to swallow his cock, getting it as deep in my throat as I could. I guess it worked, because he stopped working after not too long. He trussed up my cock and balls in a tight little cock ring that pushed my balls out and turned ‘em scarlet, then led me to the kitchen.

Dishes piled high in the sink and on the stove, we had quite a bit of time before the boyfriend was coming home. So he gave me an apron (my ass left bare) and set me to work cleaning while he planned the dinner menu.

I don’t really enjoy doing dishes. No one does. But I’m not very good at it either. I make a mess while cleaning up a mess. I feel like I get everything wet and I waste a lot of water. But obviously that’s not really the point. It should be obvious to anyone reading this that the point of service, and the entire ethos of being a boy, is to set aside our own preferences to serve. So as I’m standing there, barely covered doing menial work, I considered why I still wanted to be standing there doing stuff I really didn’t enjoy. If I don’t enjoy it, and its not even my house, what’s the point?

I was balancing competing notions of boredom with the work itself, and the pride I was feeling while in service. Yes, all the maxims and cliches about service and boyhood apply, but cerebrally understanding it and actually experiencing the shunting of oneself are different. Washing Dishes is boring. Taking Pride in work for Sir is fulfilling. That means I’ll do what I’m told, happily and without reservation, if I know it makes Sir happy or turns him on; if it means I’ll hear “good boy.”

Dinner

Once the dishes were clean and I was preparing them to cook the meal, we had a little free time. So with head and hands on the counter he bent me over, and started to whack me on the ass. I tend to have a high tolerance for things, and in fact have only ever called “yellow” as a safe word once, because I want to see where my limits truly are, and then stretch them further. He knows this, and I think he was trying to drive me to the edge.

The stinging thwack after thwack came close to my tolerance by the end of it, especially with my sore and painful balls bouncing against me with each lunge of his hand. I cringed and tried to dance away, I grunted and groaned and winced. The worst was when the beating left my butt and went to the back of my thighs or even my inner thigh – the areas that don’t get that kind of abuse too often – the soft, virgin, sensitive skin. Had he kept going I might have begged for a break, but I don’t know if I’d have called a color. In any case, it didn’t last long and it was back to preparing dinner.

I’m a pretty good cook and I enjoyed that portion naturally. I love to create a meal and I love to serve it at a table. I’ve tried making kale chips a number of times, an this time was the best ever and since. But that’s beside the point. We moved on to one of my favorite tasks: table service.

Their dining room is separate from their kitchen, which meant I could easily stay out of their way while I watched for what they needed and cleaned up (again). Rick had thought about having me eat with or near them, but I don’t tend to eat much when in service anyway – my stomach is usually too full of butterflies and my mind too distracted to want to eat. So I simply served. They basically ignored me. I was furniture, not a guest. I was the help. I didn’t need or even want acknowledgement. And it was good. My only regret was that I didn’t realize the door between the two rooms actually shut. I felt I was being pretty loud in cleaning the dishes and didn’t want to disturb their dinner. Next time, that door will be shut, and they can have a proper quiet meal without some annoying boy making a ruckus.

In Storage

After dinner was cleaned up I was led to a spare bedroom, down the hall from the living room but close enough to hear a signal, which was important since I was about to be tied up and left there for a while. Hands and feet bound to each other, and to my balls, and gagged with a ball gag, I was left naked on a bed with a bell if I panicked. Sir went to watch Saturday Night Live with his boyfriend. He occasionally checked on me, but for the most part I was left to ponder my situation.

I tried not to get too overly analytical about it. I could hear the TV and regarded my situation of not being worthy to watch it with them, even relegated to the floor or the corner. I was now in storage. Stowed until needed. An appliance.

Two things were happening at this stage. One, my balls were cold. Not overly cold, but they were tied up and it wasn’t warm in the room, and I’d been naked for hours at this point, so it was natural to be cold. But what I don’t really know yet is when cold is a problem. When is cold just being cold, and when is an indication of something is numb. I don’t know, especially for my balls, so at some point Sir loosened them a bit, which made me worry a little bit less. I’ll figure that out some day. Just requires more rope.

The second thing was that Sir came to check on me several times. And every time he did, he tantalized me a little bit more. With all that goes on in my brain it’s hard to dive into an experience where I want nothing more than to serve a man and feel frustration at that denial. In other words, I get teased and poked and prodded, but don’t always feel the sexual frustration that drives many subs when they’re in service. But with Sir constantly coming in to touch and kiss me through my gag, biting on my lip and tweaking my nipples, by the end I wanted him badly. I longed for him when he wasn’t there and whimpered when he left the room.

After the show was done he returned, and had his way with me. He loosed the ropes enough so he could get access to my ass, and he fucked me. It was wonderful. To finally be of use again, to be used again.

He let me cum, I don’t remember how now, and eventually I cleaned up and went home. It’s been a while now since this night, and I’m hoping to see him again soon and push ourselves a little further.

On Personal Growth, The Gym, and Taking Orders

I’ve mentioned before that I believe a man, and especially a boy, must continually work to improve himself and grow. Over the last couple of years, my two key areas of growth have been in my submission (however slow that process), and fitness. For the former, I might have more updates in the new year, but I won’t get ahead of myself now. But for the latter, I’m happy to report my ass is now being handed to me on a regular basis.

I made a lot of progress toward my fitness goals over the last couple of years, especially in 2012. But no man is an island, and to reach our goals we almost always need a guide, a master or a mentor. I could only get so far on my own. I finally had to bite the bullet and submit to a personal trainer’s sadism.

We have a training gym here in Denver that emphasizes accountability and includes nutritionists with their fees. So I get a crazy personal trainer and a sage nutritionist on this journey, and every day I have to submit a report of what I’ve eaten/exercised that day. If I don’t, they start harassing me.

And then of course there are the actual sessions – 3 times a week I go in for a 7am, vomit-inducing, gut-wrenching, downright evil workout. I’ve lived through two now–I just started this last week–and am dreading going back tomorrow morning. I’m sore, I’m tired, I’m still a little scared.

But I’m going to go back in the morning. Because it’s good for me. And there is definitely something about being ordered about in the gym that, aside from being a slight turn-on, is also highly effective for me. I do what I’m told when someone else is in charge, and my personal trainer is like my Dom, he says jump, and then he says jump higher, and I do. I do because I respond to that, it feels natural. When I’m in the gym, suffering, and my Dom/Trainer says to work harder, I do my best because my brain is wired to respond to orders. It’s a weird phenomenon.

That’s my news. I strive to serve, to learn, to grow; and I’ve embarked on a new phase of the journey that will take me, hopefully, to the next level. Next year will be about the next level, about working hard to find the people and resources that will make me a better man and a better boy. And I’ll probably be walking funny for a while …

Power Play in Public

Some men just exude power.

I had coffee the other day with a Dom sort of guy. On the surface he was nice, very attractive, and generally on the up and up though private in his profile. Coffee is usually the first step, getting to know your Sir won’t be a deranged bully is important. But it’s usually just coffee and dirty talk. This time was different.

We met in an average suburban coffee shop near my office and his home. Not a gay place. Not a gay neighborhood. Just one of the smaller chains. Which is why it was a bit surprising when suddenly his foot was in my crotch.

Traffic is a bitch in Denver, so we both ran a little late. When he arrived, I did my best not to stutter in my hello. We sat, talked. He has one of those deep stares, intense blue eyes that bore into you. We talked about our work, our travel, our other halves. Before long his feet had moved over to my side of the table and I was more than happy to leg cuddle a bit. Innocuous enough, right? No one would really notice and if they did they would just assume we were partners ourselves.

That’s when he put his foot on my chair right between my legs. Nothing much at first. But over the course of the hour in the coffee shop, he steadily increased the pressure, repositioned. I subtly tried to give him more access. But this was beyond innocuous, this was a subtle power exchange. He wanted to expose me, in a way, and so he would.

Gear, scene names, bondage, S&M, all the toys and tools we use in the kink world, to me, are irrelevant when you have someone who simply knows how to take your power from you. For me, all of the above are just ways to submit, routes to the power exchange that I crave. And here was a hot guy who knew how to take it. It was unnerving, a bit, to do it in a public place. The risk of getting caught, minor as this was, was simultaneously hot and frightening. I struggled to pay attention to the conversation. I genuinely liked this man as a person, but I felt like I was on fire, too.

Coffee ended and we went to our cars, which happened to be parked near each other. He told me we could chat in his car for a bit. It was a subtle but plain instruction. Settled in his car he became a lot more stern, much more in charge. He grabbed my had and slammed it to his crotch. He told me that would be down my throat before long. Even through his jeans I could tell it was a magnificent cock. He groped me whereever he wanted. He put his hand down my shirt, grabbed my chest hair and yanked, saying how good his piss would look all over my hairy chest. He tweaked my nipple. He told me to take out my cock.

Here we were in public, in a parking lot, with all sorts of people moving about and my cock was out. Nerve-wracking. Exhilarating. Also a low-grade sex offense in Colorado, if caught. When someone pulled up three spots down he said not to put it away. He manhandled my head. Put his arm against my throat. Grabbed my chest hair some more. All the while I massaged his stiffening penis. I was a little nervous he would push my head down to his crotch. That might have been a bit much for me, but he didn’t. Maybe a little too public.

He told me to put my cock away and as I did a car pulled in right next to us. A few minutes more and it was “you can go now, boy.” Get out of my car, I’m done with you for now.

For me, it’s all about power. Day to day I get tired of carrying my own power, of being the guy in charge and in control of everything – having it taken from me, forcefully if necessary, is ideal. And this is a guy who knows power, has it, uses it, and can be trusted with it. All this play in public just underlines how he knows he can take what he wants, when and where. And he can take mine whenever he wants.

Back in Service

I’ve been missing from this blog lately but that’s only because writing cogent and well thought out blog entries is really damn hard sometimes. But the reality, I hope you’ll be pleased to know, is that I’m really diving deep into my kink side again, and meeting more people and having more fun. I’ve had a few recent encounters lately, and I’ll share them in the next several blog posts.

 One of the things I struggle with is whether to document these encounters and in what style. The last thing I want is a Dom to feel like I’m immediately going to blog the experience like some sort of Amazon review. I’m not one of those assholes that has to Twitter every waking moment. My playmates should that if I blog about our experiences together, it’s not a review, it’s an homage. I feel honored to serve and I want to capture that for you, for me, and for others like us. So on to the first story:

Back In It

The first most recent encounter was with a switch friend of mine. He and his boyfriend and me and my husband have hung out a number of times, and had sex a few times, but I’ve never been in-service to him. We both knew each other was kinky, but it only minority exhibited itself in our four-way playtimes. Always saying we should have ourselves a little one on one time, we finally set a date.

I was surprised at how nervous I was. I guess in a way, it was like first-date jitters. It was weird because I know this guy, personally, sexually, as friends, and now I would know him as a Sir; it was a new dynamic, I was ecstatic but also not sure what all would happen.

We didn’t meet right away. There were several days–almost a week–between making the plans and the actual evening. I have never been good at waiting for anything, whether it’s Christmas or bondage. I went to the gym a lot to try and take my mind off the anticipation or else I would spin myself silly. But for me the greatest challenge was the anticipation, the run-up, even a little fear. It’s the same feeling I get every time I meet someone new, though this time it was a little different, because this time it wasn’t coffee or talk or whatever, it was real service.

There were also instructions. Goddamn! Do I love having instructions to follow. I was to wear a butt plug (one of my new favorites – I’ll blog about that later). I was to wear a jock strap, and to arrive promptly at 7:30pm. When I arrived I was to strip to the jock and he would come to collar me, and I was his from then until he was done with me.

I try to be a good boy, to follow rules. So that meant despite the fact I arrived 10 minutes early, I waited on the porch until 7:30pm sharp. My heart was racing. I crave service and want every detail to be spot on. I’ve never been a ‘bad boy,’ I tend to be very compliant and willing … doing my best to please my Dom. Someday I’d like to try being bad, but I’m not sure how. Depends on the dynamic, I guess. If there’s a particular rough Dom that really wants to take power forcibly, I’ll oblige. But in this case, I think He wanted a willing boy to play with and I was happy to be that for him.

Overall the experience was a chance for us to experiment a bit and get to know each other as Dom and sub. We tried different things to see what our vibe would be. I did the dishes for him. I was his footstool and I worshipped his feet. I was bound to a chair, edged, and face-fucked (there’s a picture of it out there, by the way). I was bound in a stress position on the bed and face fucked and edged some more. I swallowed his cum. He let me cum … that didn’t take much by the end.

But most of all I was just ecstatic to be in service, to worship a hot Dom, to be his plaything. I love having hoops to jump through, rules to follow. And this was a great way to get restarted in service again.

Another Way I Know I’m a Sub/Boy

There are lots of little vignettes of how I know – I mean how I truly know – that I’m a “boy.” I guess it’s a lot like the question of how one knows he’s gay. It just feels right, everything clicks, and performing the work or hearing the words just feels natural, it makes one feel whole.

I had another instance of feeling whole as a boy a few weeks ago, and in a way, it was by accident. It wasn’t a scene, or a session, and no one got naked. It was game night with a couple of friends. My (vanilla) husband and I love to have dinner parties and play board games, and so we had a couple over that we like and are getting to know better.

I made dinner. Hubs made dessert of some sort. Typically I’m your quintessential Martha in the kitchen: stay out, I’ll do the work, and I’ll make sure it’s just right. I’m sure a big part of me wanting to make sure it’s right comes from my service side … I want my guests (and husband) to relax and enjoy their evening and I’ll make the magic happen. Seriously I would do quite well as house staff in Downton Abbey, white gloves and all.

But this particular night, something different clicked for me. I felt most at home, most useful, and most happy, when I was making sure that each person wanted for nothing. Drinks, plates, dessert, everything. I was the butler for these three studs and I relished every minute of it. I didn’t care about myself, or anything I wanted, I ate last and made sure they got the things they wanted and needed, preferably before they asked for it.

I feel whole when I’m in service. And being in service is not just about sex, or bondage, or submission. It’s surrender of control, it’s giving up any hint of my own needs. Because I don’t really need anything but to serve. Sure, that might be sucking Sir’s cock or getting tied and beaten for his stress relief or being a footrest, but it could also be serving drinks or waiting a table at a party.

My role as a boy is to ensure Sir/Daddy/Master is happy, and that’s how I find fulfillment.

Art & Bondage: Kickstarter Campaign

Hey kinksters,

Check this out: art, music, and bondage. There is a gay composer who’s creating a piece that combines his art, his identity, and the work of a real live bondage artist in a special show. The kickstarter campaign will help pay the performers, for supplies, and to produce videos of it, and if you pony up enough you can get a DVD of it yourself.

Seems like a good way to bring positive exposure to kink community, so if you have $10, donate, and please the leather gods.

Would You Rather?

Today I played a little game on my porno tumblr – people sent me Would You Rather? questions, and I answered them. It was fun! Especially since I was working from a coffee shop and had to use my laptop to hide my hard-on. Here’s the result! Would you rather …

…spend the night in a leather sleep sack or a leather straightjacket? 

Straight jacket. I think they have a bigger tone of subjugation that resonates with me.

Damn! It Feels Good To Be Called “boy”

Last night was my and my husband’s anniversary. We’re not much for pomp so as usual we just spent the day together. My plan was to simply go to a nice dinner, then come home, share a shower and have him fuck me (never an easy task, he’s got a huge cock). So before we left, I cleaned out, cleaned up, got dressed and off we went. Dinner was lovely, the drinks at the place were great. We tried walking to our favorite bookstore, but it was closed. So was the hookah bar. So we decided it would be fun to get sloshed at home and really go at each other.

We got home, he pushed me against the wall and unbuttoned my shirt. It stayed that way while we had a smoke out on the porch. We mixed a new favorite cocktail and imbibed, chatted, and had a great time together. Done with that we went inside to watch Game of Thrones. I told him I was going to put a butt plug in my ass to get ready. I came out in my underwear and robe and he’d changed into nothing but his lace-up jock (my favorite). He told me to make him a drink. I did, and we cuddled on the couch.

After a little while, he started to tweak my nipples pretty damn hard. He reached into my underwear to start beating on the butt plug. He started to order me around, sending me on little tasks. Get him a drink, get him the nail clippers, get his phone. And he started to call me “boy.”

Almost immediately on hearing that moniker, what little training I’ve had kicked in. “Yes Sir,” and “thank you, Sir,” started to flow from my lips. When I retrieved something, I waited by the couch to be given permission to sit back down. It felt so natural, so normal, so right.

Ordered to the shower, we cleaned each other up. He took out the butt plug and put his cock in its place. He scrubbed his boy clean, like a piece of property. I didn’t need to be told to get a towel and dry him off. He went to the bedroom while I dried myself.

In bed, it was “eat my ass, boy” and “suck on that cock, boy.” He had my sit on his face (he loves to eat me out), and then turn around and sit on his cock. It normally hurts like a bitch, but he slid right in. It was amazing.

The details are actually a little hazy, now. We had been drinking, after all (and I rarely drink, so it hit me hard). But the flashes of memory just give him happy, fulfilled shivers. I sat on his giant cock, I rode it like a horse. He slapped my ass, I counted out loud (12 times) and thanked him every time. He told me to cum on his chest. I jacked off with his cock in my ass, with him watching me, objectifying me, thrusting in me. He put me on my knees, my face buried in a pillow, and fucked me hard. I screamed and shouted at the pleasure and pain. I said “thank you, Sir” with almost every thrust. He put the ball gag in my mouth, and I screamed some more. He pulled out and had me make out with him while he finished.

And he called me “boy” the whole time. Afterwards, the orders continued. Clean him up. Get him water. Take care of the dog. “boy.” I was melting.

Being called “boy” was like soaking in a warm pool. It enveloped me, it felt right. I would already do anything for my man, but when he called me boy, it flipped from serving just because I love him, to serving because I’m wired to serve – because service is a big part of my identity. The change was automatic, like a light switch in my psyche. I forgot everything else, I forgot any shame, any shyness. There was no hesitation. It was my pleasure to take the pain, because it was pleasing my Sir, and I was his boy.

This morning, it still feels so damn good to have been called “boy.” For my husband, it’s not much more than a fun little sexy game. He’s not wired as a Dom. But last night made it all that much clearer: I am a boy who lives to serve.

Hey Strangers!

It’s about fucking time, I know, but here ’tis: A pitiful excuse for a blog update!

So at the end of 2011, I got busy, and it was good. Work was keeping me running around, I had to deal with a lot of annoying people, and it was just a matter of not having enough time in the day to do everything I wanted to do. So I put off blogging here, and put it off, and put it off some more. Frankly I was lucky I didn’t completely forget about Christmas (came close though), the end of last year was just that nuts.

Then the new year came. Things got decidedly less busy. Projects at work have tapered off, I still have some work though it comes and goes. We’re not starving (yet), nor have a need to become a professional bdsm sub (wink), but sometimes I think “okay, it would be nice to have a new client now.” And then usually, work comes in. That’s the life of a freelancer, I guess, it’s either feast or famine. Right now I’m pretty happy, work-wise, and not too worried. I’m somewhat of an optimist in that regard, and usually believe things will turn out okay.

But 2012 also brought some new distractions, apart from work, and that’s really been the reason I’ve been gone. I’ve blogged about it before here, but the reality is that I’ve long had shyness and self-confidence issues. All last year I worked hard (mostly) to lose weight, and since the beginning of this year, I’ve redoubled those efforts with a near-crazy gusto. I think I only have enough spare energy to focus on a few big personal projects. Sometimes, that’s kink. Moretimes, that’s fitness. And for the last three months it’s been a focus on fitness.

Basically, because of that focus, I put much of my fetish life on hold. I’m not sure I will ever feel fully comfortable with myself, or have the confidence I need to play and make friends in the kink community, until I complete this journey. So I’ve basically been keeping my kinky side on hiatus while I work on my other demons. So far, so good, though. I’ve lost nearly 30 pounds so far this year. I have more work to do, but I’m feeling great, and hopefully can be making time again for this neglected part of my soul. And I may even have some great real-life stories to share (hint hint).

So what’s happening now, moving forward? 

I want to do more writing. I don’t know what’s happening with Submitted right now. I have an outline and could write it, sure, but there is a big difference between writing a proper erotica novel and writing smut for a blog. On a blog, I have to get to the good shit quickly or no one would care. In a novel, I can develop a real story. So I might actually take Submitted and rework it into something really cool. But even so, I’m going to develop other stories and write little shorts for the blog, because my creativity comes and goes, and I’d like it to cum a lot more often.

And now that I live in Colorado, and it’s spring and summer, I’m going to be spending a ton of time outside (which is not conducive to blogging, but oh well). It’s hiking and camping season, boys! So I fully intend to be outside. Kinky camping trip anyone?

So that’s my quick update for now before I have to run out the door. Stay tuned for more as time comes.

Guy Fawkes Day – Do Something Subversive

Remember remember the fifth of November
Gunpowder, treason and plot.
I see no reason why gunpowder, treason
Should ever be forgot…

Happy Guy Fawkes Day! Traditionally a holiday in England to remember the failed plot to blow up parliament. The original intent was probably more along the lines of cautioning the populace against foolhardy attempts at rebellion, sedition, and treason; today it’s mostly an excuse to get drunk in a field with a great big bonfire.

On this side of the pond, though, I like to think of Guy Fawkes Day differently: Do Something Subversive.  No treason or attempts at overthrowing the government, please, and don’t do anything stupid. But do stand up for something important, do go against societal norms, do something that makes people think or feel slightly uncomfortable, or do something that makes you uncomfortable.

Take a naughty photo of yourself or write down a crazy fantasy (and send it my way, I’ll put it up). Go to your local Occupy ____ movement and bring them food, or pick up a sign and protest greed. Leave your big-name bank and join a credit union or small local friendly bank (it’s not that hard to do). Hell, donate food or volunteer at a soup kitchen, come out of a closet, go get your mail dressed in your finest kinky wares. Whatever it is, do something unusual for you and for those you live amongst. It’s better than just going with whatever daily flow we all get ourselves stuck in.

Shame, Kink, and Privacy

Leatherati has had some interesting articles lately on kink shame; and I’ve seen a (somewhat obnoxious) video floating around espousing the basic tenets of coming out as kinky to friends or family. And then yesterday rauber wrote a personal post about his own tussle with privacy over his kinky interests. So it all got me to thinking about my own perspective on kink, privacy, and shame.

Ever since I accepted that I was gay, I’ve not felt ashamed of myself. That didn’t mean I instantly came out of the closet, though. I have a life-long policy of not debating fundamentalists, or really even listening to them, so I didn’t outright tell my family not for fear or shame, but because I didn’t want to deal with their judgmental ignorance. But that was a mistake, because my being gay isn’t a phase, or a choice, or a passing interest. It’s my identity. Who I love is who I am. And those I loved deserved to know that. Today, I don’t exactly leave a glitter trail wherever I go, but I don’t shy away from describing my husband. This is a part of my identity, and I’m not ashamed of it.

But the fact is, I don’t apply the same standard to my kink. Yes, being a kinkster is a part of who I am, but I don’t feel the same need to announce it to everyone who passes by. Kink, leather, submission or BDSM do not make up the whole of my identity. What I do – in the bedroom, dungeon, conference, hotel — is not who I am. For most people, it’s none of their business. I don’t ask my family how they like to have sex, and I don’t think it’s anyone else’s business how I like to have sex. But if I was ever asked, or if the concept of kink and BDSM came up with friends (because it just never would with family … it just wouldn’t), I would defend it and describe it for those who are uninformed. Because I do believe that the kinky community is misunderstood and often maligned. And I would freely admit my interest, in context, because I’m not ashamed of it, I just enjoy my privacy.

Scene Names

In his article on the topic, Loren Berthelsen brings up a lot of concepts in a very short article. How do we deal with events, say, if going to IML and being asked why you’re traveling to Chicago. Do we just say “a convention” or do we describe exactly what IML is. And for that matter, what is IML? I think for those of us who travel to events like that, we are choosing to shed some of our right to privacy and have that responsibility to educate those who might be interested. But there’s a difference between being open and educational and ramming it down people’s throats. Just as those of us who wrestle with dual gay-Christian identities have to disassociate our love from our sex for the sex-obsessed fundamentalists, we kinksters need to be able to describe the community and enthusiast aspects of our events without leading people to being that kink-cons are just great big orgies (even if they are great big orgies … it’s all about proper messaging). (more…)

blablabla work blablabla lion king blablabla halloween

I have nothing particularly interesting to say. Sorry. The weekend was … fine. I didn’t work. I should have, but was tired most of it. My dog hasn’t been sleeping well and so I haven’t been sleeping well. Though Sunday was nice – did some volunteering painting the lobby of a local food bank. Last night the husband and I tried to watch a scary movie – Priest – which sucked. Halloween has never really been my thing. By the time I think “we should carve pumpkins,” it’s too late in the season. I don’t really dress up, and haven’t been to a Halloween party in a long time. Maybe next year I’ll go as a gimp … and just keep going as a gimp for the rest of the year.Thanksgiving and Christmas was always more my thing. I love Christmastime. Commercialism and over-hyping, not so much, but in general, I love going all out for the next couple of holidays.

This is going to be a busy week. Nothing really going on today. Tomorrow is dinner with the in-laws (now that’s a scary halloween event).  Wednesday we’re going to see a musical – our first in Denver. Thursday is my husband’s art class. Friday evening is some more volunteering. So, busier than usual kind of week. On top of it I have a ton of work to do with two major projects, both of which need a lot of time this week, plus the innumerable annoying small tasks that will inevitably creep up and demand to be taken care of right now because it’s an emergency and everyone’s going to die if we don’t have this paragraph changed on our website oh my god you suck at life, rook. 

If only they made gags for emails.

I slept wrong last night, and so can barely turn my head today. I don’t feel sexy or kinky. So I don’t really have anything tantalizing to say. This is kind of a nothing most. Sorry.

I did start thinking up an idea for submitted, though. Something big and awesome, but a lot of work to bring to life. I think I’m going to do it … it will just take a while to finish.

Okay, I should stop blogging and go back to work. Those frantic emails aren’t going to ignore themselves.

Chapter 6: Welcome to Your New Life, (Shit Head) [Part 2]

This is part 2, following up from this entry. Read that first!

The next morning I woke to light thwacks of the riding crop through the bars. I opened my eyes to see Ethan in boxers and a wife-beater (boy-beater?). “Get up, boy.”  He unlocked the cage and I crawled out; my limbs were stiff and my cock half-hard. He sat on the edge of the bed, “Position three, right here,” indicating the spot in front of him. I had to think for a second, which one was that? “Now, boy,” Right, attention. Damn, was I groggy.

He slapped my cool skin with the crop – not much more than a tickle, really, paying special attention to my cock and balls. It didn’t take long for them to wake up to full strength – the sight of Ethan’s well-build arms outlined in that tight shirt would have done it alone. “Put this on, you know the drill.” He handed me a condom, and like last night, I put it on and turned my head to the wall, careful not to close my eyes. My mind was still blank. Like before, I could sense him watching him, like a piece of meat, though this time he took greater liberty with the riding crop.

I jacked off, came into the condom, and took it off. I followed him into the bathroom where he stripped and stepped into the shower. “You have two minutes to do whatever you need to,” I relieved myself and brushed my teeth with the provided toiletries. He turned off the water and stood, dripping wet, looking incredibly hot. I’d seen him shirtless on his Recon photo, but everything was ten times more magnificent in person. I’d never seen someone so well built, so handsome, this close. “Wait any longer to dry me off and I’m going to beat you bloody, shit head.” I snapped out of my reverie and grabbed a towel.

When he was sufficiently dry, I was told to grab my scrubs and go make breakfast. Eggs and toast. He came down in gym clothes, I served him. “Position one.” I returned to a corner while he ate and read the paper. I heard him get up and leave the room, calling behind him “eat the leftovers, clean up, then come into the office.”

A few minutes later I appeared at the door and waited while he tapped at his computer. “You talk in your sleep. You’re not supposed to speak, even when unconscious. Clearly I have to reinforce the issue.”

He stood up and came over to me; in his hands was some sort of leather strap contraption, a head harness. He placed it over my head, the straps securing in two places behind my head. A muzzle-like gag could be unbuckled from the harness, and it was fitted with a small pecker-like protrusion, big enough to occupy my mouth but not cause a lot of discomfort from forcing my mouth open too long. He placed it in my mouth and secured it in place.

“I’m going out. While I’m gone, you will clean my house – every room, including downstairs. You’ll find supplies in the laundry room for up here. The dungeon has its own supplies in the front closet.”

He then put foam plugs in my ears. As they slowly expanded and muffled the ambient noise, I heard him say, “I’ll leave you alone with your own thoughts. All rules apply.” And then he left.

In my silent mental cage I went about the work, finding the supplies and scrubbing away. The house was already immaculate; he probably had a maid or something, and now that maid was me. I made the bed, did the laundry, changed the sheets, cleaned the mirrors, dusted. It was actually a lot of work – I wasn’t used to cleaning such a large house. I barely ever cleaned by own apartment.

In the dungeon, I found the mop, bucket, and gallons of some sort of specialty cleaner for sex toys and tools. I scrubbed the table and fucking machine that mock-raped the gimp from yesterday, the chains and stool I was tied to, the bathroom I was locked in. In another room I dusted and cleaned a St. Anthony’s cross and some sort of bondage table. I peeked in the closet, and my eyes widened to take in the rows of leather tools, straps, ropes, gags, floggers, whips, and boxes of other things I didn’t dare explore.

Several hours later I was tired, a bit sweaty, and my freshly shaved skin was starting to itch all over. I finished the work, putting everything away and wondered what to do next. It was the middle of the day, so I made Ethan a sandwich and wrapped it, ready for him when he returns. I figured a little initiative wasn’t a bad thing. With nothing else to do, then, I assumed positioned one and stood there with my thoughts.

I closed my eyes and envisioned my place in this story. A new boy, serving, cleaning, and now stowed in the corner like a vacuum or robot unused. I wondered what this would make me – what kind of person I would become. I wasn’t sure that the person – or tool, really – that I was acting as this weekend was the kind of person I wanted to be for the rest of my life. But at the same time, throughout the day, I really only cared about doing a good job, about cleaning the house well, about doing what I thought would make this Master happy. The thought that I was the plaything to the hottest man I’d ever seen played almost no role in my thoughts. Somehow, the service aspect was fulfilling, so whatever I was to become, would probably be profoundly different from my selfish instinct. At least, maybe.

After a while, I was startled to feel his hand on my shoulder. My mind was off in some other land and time, and my heart raced from the surprise. He took the foam out of my ears. He looked sweaty, he must have been working out. A smile graced his lips. “Good boy, there might be hope for you yet.” I couldn’t help but smile. “Follow me and you’ll have a little reward.” (more…)

Friday Favorites: Clips & Clothespins

One of my very first bdsm toys were clothespins I pilfered from the laundry room growing up. The thing about clothespins is they look worse than they are, at least until you take them off. They give good leverage for torturing nipples though, and one scene I really want to try some day is the one where you take a bunch of clips, attach them to the sub over a piece of string, and then after he’s acclimated to them, rip the string off and all the clothespins with it.

My nipples were never that erotic for me until that one fateful training in Nashville. Now, I love it when my husband bites them, and often I beg him to bite them harder, deeper, to twist them and leave a mark. One of the next things on my list is getting tied down and clipped as much as my skin will bear. I want to push that feeling to my max, to see where the limit lies, and then push further.

Chapter 6: Welcome to Your New Life, (Shit Head) [Part 1]

Previously: Chapter 5
After a harrowing introduction and demands to commit to real service, Ethan sat me down in a small living room. Weekly he would check in with me, to ensure I was still sane and okay. But at the same time, he demonstrated this was not about sex, not for me anyway, and began the journey of teaching me real service, apart from over-sexualzation. Six rules to follow later, the weekend began.

The six basic rules rattled around in my head. I repeated them over and over so I wouldn’t forget one. Having no idea what punishment would be like, but seeing just how crooked Ethan’s mind could get, I wasn’t eager to find out. When we get upstairs from the dungeon, we enter his living room. I’m guessing we’re in a brownstone – a New York townhouse, though I still have no idea where in the city after driving for what felt like hours, after my “kidnapping.”

I manage a quick glance around the living room before I’m told to go stand in a corner while he makes a phone call. Everything seems normal for a successful sales executive living in (or near) the greatest city in the world. Wood floors, big windows, a comfy-looking leather couch, large TV, and a variety of books, knick knacks, artwork and other decorations neatly ordered. He’s no slob, clearly; and he has good taste, but strikingly, not a single hint of naked man or kink could be seen. No porn, magazines, or Maplethorpe artwork. I don’t know what I expected … matching slings to watch TV from?

I hear him end his call and come back into the room. “Your in position number one. When I tell you to assume this position, you return to this corner with your hands folded behind your back, staring straight ahead like you were looking through the wall.

“Over this weekend you’ll be taught new positions. Do not screw them up.”

“Yes, sir.”

THWACK! went his hand upside my head. “Did I ask you a question?”

I realized that no, he didn’t. Somehow I’d assumed I was supposed to confirm that I understood the instruction, figured a “yes, sir” was respectful, appropriate. I paused too long.

THWACK! went his hand again. “That time I did ask you a question. Do you understand what being seen and not heard means, boy?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then shut the fuck up.”

I did not reply. Instead I followed him, as directed, to the main part of the living room, standing between the couch and the television. “Put your feet about shoulder-width apart and bend over to grab your ankles.” I did the best I could, wishing I was a little more flexible. Ethan thought the same, apparently, and placed his hand on my upper back and pushed me down further. I grabbed as tightly to my ankles as I could, trying to stay in the position he wanted. “This is position two. It may be for punishment, it may be for fucking you. It might just be to turn you into furniture. But when I call for it, you assume this position and do not move.”

He left me there a minute, then, “Stand at attention.” (more…)