This is going to be a boring one, but as many of you know - I'm a political little librarian, and so you can't imagine that I wouldn't say something. I know I'm not supposed to put stuff like this up here, but it's important to me, and I'm hoping that elections are important to you, too. I'm heading off to vote after I finish this tasty omelet of mine.There are a million reasons to stay home an abstain and complain about everyone, which is fine, but whether you feel it's your civic duty, or you see real change, or the sticker is going to get you laid and cheap beer tonight - vote.
People throw around all these ideas about the founders and God, and their intention for large or small government, and a lot of it is absolutely convenient speculation based on the outcome you would like (sorry Scalia, I know your game). But one thing the Founders actually did was make sure that the people (well, at that time people = land-owning white men, but just go with me) could have a bloodless revolution every four years. It was their gift to every generation to come. Today is the day that we acknowledge and honor that gift.
So if that's not enough for you (and you were curious about my political beliefs), here's why I'm voting today:
1. The Economy: Romney's loves his tagline "the government doesn't create jobs." That is a dandy platform if you're running for CEO, but it's a cop out when you're running for President. I believe in a mix of capital injections, public works projects, and quantitative easing. I believe that an increase in social services to low-income folks which allows them access to job training and education is necessary to make sure that inequity begins to close, not expand. I believe trickle-down is pure fiction, and I believe if you look at the growing inequality and the implementation of trickle-down theory, there is a very clear correlation. I don't believe that we should raise the ceiling on profit potential with more opportunities for businesses, I believe we need to raise the floor with opportunities for people, including the un and underemployed, low-skilled jobs which have sunset clauses built in, and middle and low income communities. Which brings me to...
2. Education: I have always believed (much like Aaron Sorkin and Sam Seaborn) that education is the silver bullet. Investment in education at all levels of income is the only way to make sure we remain a strong economy. The shift to public education financing coming primarily for property taxes had dire structural impacts. Charter schools which use money from public funds, reduction in PELL grants, and additional pushes towards privatization mean increasing inequality, and a divestment from future competitiveness internationally. Education - genuine educational opportunities - means not only a practical guarantee that we will remain on par with education levels in other countries (we spend way less per child than most places), but it also means reductions in crime, structural inequality, and science and technology advancements (including medical care, which should really resonate with an aging Baby Boomer population who will face increasing risks for cancer). Among other things.
3. I don't have health insurance.
4. Reproductive Rights: This one should be pretty obvious. And this one should be enough to get you all to vote. Reproductive rights are not a women's issue. The right of every couple/family/individual to have access to basic family planning and medical care is not just a women's issue. The inability to access safe care, correct medical information, and to do it all without shame or stigma is just a serious issue.
5. The Supreme Court: Two nominations are likely coming in the next four years. And Scalia's relatively young and no one should ever hire Clearance Thomas, so they're both staying put. Which means that the next two put on the bench could mean a turning point. The next twenty years are going to be about privacy- the delineation between the corporate and the citizen, the line between the personal and the public. If you're reading this blog, that should resonate with you. They're not deciding on guns or voting rights anymore, they're deciding on limitations on search and seizure, on private domain. If you're reading this blog, I'm guessing you're going to err on the side of privacy as well.
6. Rape: Why the hell is this an issue? I rub my eyes and make a Scooby Doo "huh?" noise every time this comes up. And it may sound insane every time it gets discussed, as the concepts of "forced rape" or "legitimate rape" will never appear in federal legislation (except in the places they already do...) - but it will get tossed around a lot, and it will promote the idea that there are women who are just asking for it. And this stabs me through the heart. Look, I talk a lot about force, and how hot it can be. But I absolutely, 100%, cross my heart know that rape is not a subject to be glib about, and that rape, not consensual play rape (maybe that's the illegitimate form? I don't know), is a serious fucking thing which can cause serious physical and emotional trauma to you, your family, your friends, your partners, your future partners, your children, and your life. I refuse to have politicians (I'm looking at you Paul Ryan) who fundamentally misunderstand what violence looks like, and who are willing to delineate victimization between the deserving and the undeserving.
So that's the short list. There's also diplomacy with Iran, getting out of Afghanistan, an incredible love of Hillary Clinton, the fact that Obama was a community organizer (go team!), the eye-rolling at Romney's "tough on China" crap, the bill on credit card clarity, the first education bill, the push to integrate NGO work with law enforcement, Medicare, and how much more I like the Obamas than the Romneys. But whatever your reason, just go vote. I know you probably skip out on jury duty, so after paying taxes this is really all you're asked to do.
For everyone in the New York area! At my last check, 60 polling places had either closed or combined with other locations, so double check where you're going. Find out where to vote here.
Tuesday, November 6, 2012
Sunday, November 4, 2012
Debussy's Arabesque No. 1. Andantino Con Moto.
The sound of a metronome is deafening. Every tick makes my heart race. It feels not like a beat but a cage. I often wish my heart would simply go in time, making it easier to find that rhythm with my fingers, but it never does. It simply speeds up, making every joint and muscle tense for the moment where I will make a mistake.
Because I will make a mistake.
My fingers tremble and trill over the keys, trying to keep my mind one step ahead of the melody and two ahead of my fingers. This is always my downfall. And always in my ear is the persistent, unending click of the metronome, waiting to prove me wrong.
I am quickly moving through the piece, fingers aching, ready to be at the end, ready to be released. As the notes trail on and one movement slides into the next, as majors descend into minors and my brow furrows trying to keep everything in pace, I realize I have been holding my breath through each section.
And then I hear it. It deafens me, and despite the seven notes that come after it, I hear only the whining misstep of a finger on a sharp that should have been flat.
I can almost feel his jaw tighten as I make this mistake, so close to the end. I can feel my own tighten. My forearms, hands, and fingers already show the red stripes and bloodied wear of my fuck ups that day.
"You were so close."
I nod.
"I thought you were going to do it this time."
My mouth opens and trembles. "I did, too, Sir."
He places a strong hand on my shoulder and squeezes softly. "Do you think I'm mean?"
I shake my head as more tears begin to well up. My cheeks are already streamed with the lines of halting crying.
"How many measures from the end were you?"
"I raise up an unsteady finger to count." Every measure not there is another reminder that I was almost done. I had almost completed my task. I was so close to standing and smiling and being told I was good and deserved my reward.
"Fourteen, Sir." This is far better than the last run through. But that was only marginally better than the run through before that. And it was the run through before that where the skin on the backs of my hands began to crack.
His hand runs down my cheek, the back of his soft knuckles grazing my jawline. I lean into it, eyelids drifting down. When I feel his hand leave my cheek, I let my eyes remain shut. I sit up straight and rigid, taking a deep breath and finding solace in stoicism. The pain is never as hard as the failure of a task before him. The white heat of his cane I can take. The loss of affection from his failure I cannot.
His cane makes a gentle sweep and comes down on the backs of my fingers as the metronome clicks away. My knuckles already crack with dried blood and shake with focus. The next swat comes down just slightly higher up and my muscles tense. there is nothing but skin and nerves here, and it will only feel like a gift when he finally moves up beyond my wrists. I focus on that. I hear only the tick tick tick, broken by the sweep of the cane through the air.
I focus on the numbers I must announce, eyes remaining closed. Even sitting I feel a loss of balance, my body beginning to dwindle in front of him, and I sway slightly.
Another swat comes down and then another until fourteen have been counted out and announced. My fingers shake, and the more they bleed, the more they will slick on the keys.
"Again."
I place my fingers on the keys before coming down, beginning again. I am shaking this time, my mind slipping off into the pain of welts forming and blood pooling in the lines of my knuckles. My mind is drifting off and away from the tick tick tick of the metronome.
When you topple off of the rhythm of the metronome, it is immediately apparent and today is no different. My fingers, shaking, begin to move faster than they should and I am almost immediately a full beat ahead of where I should be.
He places a hand on the back of my neck. "Stop. You know it's wrong."
I look up at him, eyes glassy with distance and tears. He looks down at me and then stops the metronome. The constant tick which has held me so steady since the beginning is now gone and I am startled by its absence. My eyes jolt to stare at his hand holding it in place. I breathe one ragged breath before I can feel my shoulders relax. I look up at him again, my mouth opening slightly but I have no words. Simply the wish to speak.
"Stand." I do staring at him. I am afraid. I know I was supposed to do it perfectly and I have tried so hard. I wish my face was still blank. I wish I was still in that submissive space where everything is a task to be done and discipline is simply to be endured.
But now that has cracked open and the ache of displeasure is written plain.
He strokes my hair, winding his fingers through the curls that escape from being pulled back. "You are trying so hard."
I nod, the corners of my mouth tightening and pulling back. He steps behind me and I turn back to stare at the music in front of me. He unzips my dress, slowly. He has been specific about clothing, from the dress he likes to the bra, garters and stockings underneath. He pulls the dress from over my head, and I rolls my body and lift my arms without a word. He places the dress over the back of the hair and I, without thinking, step my feet a little more apart. My cunt, which is perpetually wet and ready and exposed for him, touches the air ever so slightly and the slightest chill wakes my limbs and digits.
"Bend over."
I nod, resting my hands on the top of the piano.
"Fingers on the keys."
My fingers perch on the keys without pushing down, tightening my stomach to hold my place. I begin to breathe slower, but more forcefully.
"You are a good girl." I smile, dropping my head slightly.
I hear it before I feel it. The cane comes down on my ass in a searing tick tick tick of the rhythm. I feel it vibrate into my bones, creating a beat with my entire body. I fight every muscle to squirm as his strokes become harder and harder. He wants me to ingrain this beat into my muscles. Into my cells.
Without saying a word I begin to play, moving steadily and slowly, but never languishing. His cane continues, coming down smoothly, guiding my fingers in measure after measure.
He conducts, I follow.
Because I will make a mistake.
My fingers tremble and trill over the keys, trying to keep my mind one step ahead of the melody and two ahead of my fingers. This is always my downfall. And always in my ear is the persistent, unending click of the metronome, waiting to prove me wrong.
I am quickly moving through the piece, fingers aching, ready to be at the end, ready to be released. As the notes trail on and one movement slides into the next, as majors descend into minors and my brow furrows trying to keep everything in pace, I realize I have been holding my breath through each section.
And then I hear it. It deafens me, and despite the seven notes that come after it, I hear only the whining misstep of a finger on a sharp that should have been flat.
I can almost feel his jaw tighten as I make this mistake, so close to the end. I can feel my own tighten. My forearms, hands, and fingers already show the red stripes and bloodied wear of my fuck ups that day.
"You were so close."
I nod.
"I thought you were going to do it this time."
My mouth opens and trembles. "I did, too, Sir."
He places a strong hand on my shoulder and squeezes softly. "Do you think I'm mean?"
I shake my head as more tears begin to well up. My cheeks are already streamed with the lines of halting crying.
"How many measures from the end were you?"
"I raise up an unsteady finger to count." Every measure not there is another reminder that I was almost done. I had almost completed my task. I was so close to standing and smiling and being told I was good and deserved my reward.
"Fourteen, Sir." This is far better than the last run through. But that was only marginally better than the run through before that. And it was the run through before that where the skin on the backs of my hands began to crack.
His hand runs down my cheek, the back of his soft knuckles grazing my jawline. I lean into it, eyelids drifting down. When I feel his hand leave my cheek, I let my eyes remain shut. I sit up straight and rigid, taking a deep breath and finding solace in stoicism. The pain is never as hard as the failure of a task before him. The white heat of his cane I can take. The loss of affection from his failure I cannot.
His cane makes a gentle sweep and comes down on the backs of my fingers as the metronome clicks away. My knuckles already crack with dried blood and shake with focus. The next swat comes down just slightly higher up and my muscles tense. there is nothing but skin and nerves here, and it will only feel like a gift when he finally moves up beyond my wrists. I focus on that. I hear only the tick tick tick, broken by the sweep of the cane through the air.
I focus on the numbers I must announce, eyes remaining closed. Even sitting I feel a loss of balance, my body beginning to dwindle in front of him, and I sway slightly.
Another swat comes down and then another until fourteen have been counted out and announced. My fingers shake, and the more they bleed, the more they will slick on the keys.
"Again."
I place my fingers on the keys before coming down, beginning again. I am shaking this time, my mind slipping off into the pain of welts forming and blood pooling in the lines of my knuckles. My mind is drifting off and away from the tick tick tick of the metronome.
When you topple off of the rhythm of the metronome, it is immediately apparent and today is no different. My fingers, shaking, begin to move faster than they should and I am almost immediately a full beat ahead of where I should be.
He places a hand on the back of my neck. "Stop. You know it's wrong."
I look up at him, eyes glassy with distance and tears. He looks down at me and then stops the metronome. The constant tick which has held me so steady since the beginning is now gone and I am startled by its absence. My eyes jolt to stare at his hand holding it in place. I breathe one ragged breath before I can feel my shoulders relax. I look up at him again, my mouth opening slightly but I have no words. Simply the wish to speak.
"Stand." I do staring at him. I am afraid. I know I was supposed to do it perfectly and I have tried so hard. I wish my face was still blank. I wish I was still in that submissive space where everything is a task to be done and discipline is simply to be endured.
But now that has cracked open and the ache of displeasure is written plain.
He strokes my hair, winding his fingers through the curls that escape from being pulled back. "You are trying so hard."
I nod, the corners of my mouth tightening and pulling back. He steps behind me and I turn back to stare at the music in front of me. He unzips my dress, slowly. He has been specific about clothing, from the dress he likes to the bra, garters and stockings underneath. He pulls the dress from over my head, and I rolls my body and lift my arms without a word. He places the dress over the back of the hair and I, without thinking, step my feet a little more apart. My cunt, which is perpetually wet and ready and exposed for him, touches the air ever so slightly and the slightest chill wakes my limbs and digits.
"Bend over."
I nod, resting my hands on the top of the piano.
"Fingers on the keys."
My fingers perch on the keys without pushing down, tightening my stomach to hold my place. I begin to breathe slower, but more forcefully.
"You are a good girl." I smile, dropping my head slightly.
I hear it before I feel it. The cane comes down on my ass in a searing tick tick tick of the rhythm. I feel it vibrate into my bones, creating a beat with my entire body. I fight every muscle to squirm as his strokes become harder and harder. He wants me to ingrain this beat into my muscles. Into my cells.
Without saying a word I begin to play, moving steadily and slowly, but never languishing. His cane continues, coming down smoothly, guiding my fingers in measure after measure.
He conducts, I follow.
Monday, October 15, 2012
Perfect triangle
I want to sit on his cock while I watch you fuck yourself.
I want to pulse my cunt around his stiff cock, breathing hard, feeling him pulse inside me, feeling his balls grow thick with cum as my cum drips down on them. While you fuck yourself.
I want to watch you dip your fingers into your swollen cunt, your other hand on your clit, rubbing in small circles while your face begins to strain and I begin to see your juices drip down, out of you, onto the floor.
I will tell you "harder" and you will fuck yourself harder.
I want his hands to hold my hips, just pulling me down hard on his cock and squeezing periodically, not fucking but simply holding there, feeling my cunt pull and wrap and curl around his swollen, beautiful cock as you sit on the floor, back arched up on pillows, fucking yourself.
I want to sit on his cock while you begin to whimper, dropping your head and rolling it back as you push your hands harder, moving them deeper inside your cunt, pushing your fingers inside your pussy.
I want to grind down on his cock, my cum pooling underneath me, drenching his lap and cock and balls as his hands move up to my tits, pulling on my nipples and pinching so tightly I wince, keeping my eyes just open enough to watch you debase yourself.
You will beg to cum and I will tell you to shut the fuck up and add another finger.
I want to watch you squirm as you push harder and wince, knowing your cunt is stretching over your own fingers, eager to heed my commands enough to where you are pained - I can see it on your face.
I want to watch you fuck yourself as he leans up and bites the back of my shoulder hard, hard enough to leave a welt which will turn into a purple bruise that I will stroke and push for days just for the electric shock of pain which will hit my clit and make me wet. I will touch it in the street, on the subway, in church, in front of people who have no idea that I received such a delight while I was sitting on his erect, hard cock, watching you whimper.
I will point to a large toy and tell you I want you to use it, seeing you get eager, seeing you get excited that a hard cock will be inside of you, too, and when you go to slide it in your pretty little dripping, open cunt i will tell you no. I will tell you I want you to put it in your ass and just sit - sit with it and rock your hips, knowing it is all the way to the hilt inside your ass.
I want him to lean forward once his teeth are removed and whisper in my ear what he would like to see. I will nod and you will be curious, but distracted, struggling not to focus only on the fingers bring shoved into your cunt, the large dildo which fills your ass, both moving under your hand but my control.
I want to stand, watching your eyes get big as you watch his slicked cock leave my pussy, cum dripping down over it, letting it stand straight and swollen and ready to explode in a wet, warm hole. You will wish it was yours.
I want to watch you fuck yourself hard as you get curious, watching me walk forward, wondering what is next. I will stand over you, legs spread, and tell you to look up, and to open your mouth. I want to watch you do as you are told, still whimpering, still wanting, still so curious what is coming next and still too nervous and too scared to ask.
I want to watch you tremble as a stream of my hot piss stream down into your waiting mouth, as you lap it up, as you whimper, as you hate it, as you take it, knowing it is the only way you will be allowed to cum, allowed to do anything more than stand, dress, and leave. I will watch you swallow, watch it run over the sides of your mouth, watch you struggle, and watch you take it.
I want to watch him stroke his cock, absent-minded as he watches and enjoys and lavishes his attention on the pretty cunt he will fuck, and on the girl he will cum on.
I want to kneel down, pulling your fingers from your cunt and slide my own in their place, and I will ask you what you are. You will tell me many things - a dirty slut, a cum slut, a warm hole, a pathetic little twat waiting for cum, but only when you get the answer right - that you are ours, will I begin to fuck you with my fingers, three then four in your tight cunt.
And while I am on my knees, he will come up behind me, and slide his still-slicked cock inside my cunt.
And he will begin to fuck - to brace himself hard with his hands on my hips, and pound me with his hips until it hurts, knowing that it hurts, knowing that I am struggling in moments with how hard he is ramming his hips, his beautiful cock inside my wet pussy, which is simply begging for his cum.
I want to push my fingers, four and then five, and then my whole fist, inside your cunt as you wiggle and squirm on the dildo still in your ass, knowing you are almost filled, knowing that you are being used.
I want to push you down on your back and use my other hand to thrust the dildo, fucking your ass as you buck against my hand, push against my fist, which is curled up inside your cunt, using you until you break, demanding perfection, excellent, and complete devotion with your cunt.
I want to push back against him as he fucks harder, knowing that we must use her mouth as well, knowing that as much as I wish he would fill me with his cum, it is more important now to make sure she is marked, dirtied.
I want to fuck you harder as he pulls from my cunt and moves to sit on your chest, locking your arms in place as he slides his cock deep into your throat, making you clean it of my cum, making you lick off my juices.
I tell you that you may cum after he down and you begin to suck his cock harder, knowing that he is already painfully close, already ready to explode in your throat, and you will swallow every drop.
You will swallow every drop because I wanted that cum, and if you waste it I will make sure you never, ever waste another drop again. I will give you regrets.
I want to watch as his shoulders flex and his lower back arches.
I want to feel you pulse around my fist hard, pushing, whimpering, struggling to breathe and be so good.
I want to hear him explode only seconds before you do, knowing that he is unloading his hot cum into your throat, knowing because you are struggling and shaking and cumming so hard it hurts to remain inside your cunt.
And more than anything, I want him to stand, and I want to see a single drop wasted.
And then I will smile.
I want to pulse my cunt around his stiff cock, breathing hard, feeling him pulse inside me, feeling his balls grow thick with cum as my cum drips down on them. While you fuck yourself.
I want to watch you dip your fingers into your swollen cunt, your other hand on your clit, rubbing in small circles while your face begins to strain and I begin to see your juices drip down, out of you, onto the floor.
I will tell you "harder" and you will fuck yourself harder.
I want his hands to hold my hips, just pulling me down hard on his cock and squeezing periodically, not fucking but simply holding there, feeling my cunt pull and wrap and curl around his swollen, beautiful cock as you sit on the floor, back arched up on pillows, fucking yourself.
I want to sit on his cock while you begin to whimper, dropping your head and rolling it back as you push your hands harder, moving them deeper inside your cunt, pushing your fingers inside your pussy.
I want to grind down on his cock, my cum pooling underneath me, drenching his lap and cock and balls as his hands move up to my tits, pulling on my nipples and pinching so tightly I wince, keeping my eyes just open enough to watch you debase yourself.
You will beg to cum and I will tell you to shut the fuck up and add another finger.
I want to watch you squirm as you push harder and wince, knowing your cunt is stretching over your own fingers, eager to heed my commands enough to where you are pained - I can see it on your face.
I want to watch you fuck yourself as he leans up and bites the back of my shoulder hard, hard enough to leave a welt which will turn into a purple bruise that I will stroke and push for days just for the electric shock of pain which will hit my clit and make me wet. I will touch it in the street, on the subway, in church, in front of people who have no idea that I received such a delight while I was sitting on his erect, hard cock, watching you whimper.
I will point to a large toy and tell you I want you to use it, seeing you get eager, seeing you get excited that a hard cock will be inside of you, too, and when you go to slide it in your pretty little dripping, open cunt i will tell you no. I will tell you I want you to put it in your ass and just sit - sit with it and rock your hips, knowing it is all the way to the hilt inside your ass.
I want him to lean forward once his teeth are removed and whisper in my ear what he would like to see. I will nod and you will be curious, but distracted, struggling not to focus only on the fingers bring shoved into your cunt, the large dildo which fills your ass, both moving under your hand but my control.
I want to stand, watching your eyes get big as you watch his slicked cock leave my pussy, cum dripping down over it, letting it stand straight and swollen and ready to explode in a wet, warm hole. You will wish it was yours.
I want to watch you fuck yourself hard as you get curious, watching me walk forward, wondering what is next. I will stand over you, legs spread, and tell you to look up, and to open your mouth. I want to watch you do as you are told, still whimpering, still wanting, still so curious what is coming next and still too nervous and too scared to ask.
I want to watch you tremble as a stream of my hot piss stream down into your waiting mouth, as you lap it up, as you whimper, as you hate it, as you take it, knowing it is the only way you will be allowed to cum, allowed to do anything more than stand, dress, and leave. I will watch you swallow, watch it run over the sides of your mouth, watch you struggle, and watch you take it.
I want to watch him stroke his cock, absent-minded as he watches and enjoys and lavishes his attention on the pretty cunt he will fuck, and on the girl he will cum on.
I want to kneel down, pulling your fingers from your cunt and slide my own in their place, and I will ask you what you are. You will tell me many things - a dirty slut, a cum slut, a warm hole, a pathetic little twat waiting for cum, but only when you get the answer right - that you are ours, will I begin to fuck you with my fingers, three then four in your tight cunt.
And while I am on my knees, he will come up behind me, and slide his still-slicked cock inside my cunt.
And he will begin to fuck - to brace himself hard with his hands on my hips, and pound me with his hips until it hurts, knowing that it hurts, knowing that I am struggling in moments with how hard he is ramming his hips, his beautiful cock inside my wet pussy, which is simply begging for his cum.
I want to push my fingers, four and then five, and then my whole fist, inside your cunt as you wiggle and squirm on the dildo still in your ass, knowing you are almost filled, knowing that you are being used.
I want to push you down on your back and use my other hand to thrust the dildo, fucking your ass as you buck against my hand, push against my fist, which is curled up inside your cunt, using you until you break, demanding perfection, excellent, and complete devotion with your cunt.
I want to push back against him as he fucks harder, knowing that we must use her mouth as well, knowing that as much as I wish he would fill me with his cum, it is more important now to make sure she is marked, dirtied.
I want to fuck you harder as he pulls from my cunt and moves to sit on your chest, locking your arms in place as he slides his cock deep into your throat, making you clean it of my cum, making you lick off my juices.
I tell you that you may cum after he down and you begin to suck his cock harder, knowing that he is already painfully close, already ready to explode in your throat, and you will swallow every drop.
You will swallow every drop because I wanted that cum, and if you waste it I will make sure you never, ever waste another drop again. I will give you regrets.
I want to watch as his shoulders flex and his lower back arches.
I want to feel you pulse around my fist hard, pushing, whimpering, struggling to breathe and be so good.
I want to hear him explode only seconds before you do, knowing that he is unloading his hot cum into your throat, knowing because you are struggling and shaking and cumming so hard it hurts to remain inside your cunt.
And more than anything, I want him to stand, and I want to see a single drop wasted.
And then I will smile.
Saturday, October 13, 2012
"It's a green light Mr. Maxwell. That means you can go."
This morning was soundtracked by the 1969 film The Babysitter. It's an absurd movie which takes way too long to get anywhere interesting, but it had one of my favorite things in the world... the sweet good girl seducing the older man, which is the one thing that saves the movie.
I love to submit, I ache to bottom, to take someone's hand hard on my ass. I get antsy when the marks that are left begin to made and I no longer feel the sting on my thigh when I touch them. I beg to wear the red welts of a belt strapping. I squirm if it's been too long since I have been turned over and spanked and then fucked until I hurt. I want to submit, I want to be taken, I want to feel like I have no choice but to suck his cock, to clean it of my cum and feel it in my throat.
But as I am always quick to say - that every Daddy who adores his little girl... every Sir who owns his prized toy... is wrapped around that babygirl's finger.
There is something that just makes me light up when I know I'm turning on a top. When I know that I am getting him hard, sliding my skirt up just slightly and making sure to touch my thighs. I love to open my legs, brushing his so he knows that if he wants to slide a hand between, it is his choice. But I love to know when he's struggling a little not to.
I bite my bottom lip, letting it pop out slicked and full and ready to be covered in cum. I want him to think about what his cock will look like sliding over my bottom lip. I want him to picture my lip lowering to take the head into my mouth, staring up. I want him to lose track of sentences mid-way through because he can feel the pulse in his cock as I open my mouth to eat or drink or just to show him I want more, and I want it then.
I like to bend over for him. To pick things up off the floor, to show him am ass ripe for the beating. I arch my back and want him to long to grope and to touch, where ever we are. I want him to shift in his seat as he thinks about the spanking, the paddling, the caning, and the fucking which will ensue. I want him to get lost in his thoughts about how it will feel to squeeze the soft flesh of my ass before he takes it, claims it, marks it.
I love to tease. I love to sit on his lap and grind through my panties onto his stiffening cock. I love to feel it get hard against me, love as his eyes remain fixed on mine. I get wet knowing that I am turning him on. I get soaked knowing that I will give up all control; that I will give him everything, every hole, and still - knowing that may only be moments away. Nothing gets me wetter than knowing that no matter what is to come, and no matter how much he will push me, how much he will own and control and destroy and rebuild, that in this moment I have made him hard and I have made him want. This is where I am powerful.
I love to submit, I ache to bottom, to take someone's hand hard on my ass. I get antsy when the marks that are left begin to made and I no longer feel the sting on my thigh when I touch them. I beg to wear the red welts of a belt strapping. I squirm if it's been too long since I have been turned over and spanked and then fucked until I hurt. I want to submit, I want to be taken, I want to feel like I have no choice but to suck his cock, to clean it of my cum and feel it in my throat.
But as I am always quick to say - that every Daddy who adores his little girl... every Sir who owns his prized toy... is wrapped around that babygirl's finger.
There is something that just makes me light up when I know I'm turning on a top. When I know that I am getting him hard, sliding my skirt up just slightly and making sure to touch my thighs. I love to open my legs, brushing his so he knows that if he wants to slide a hand between, it is his choice. But I love to know when he's struggling a little not to.
I bite my bottom lip, letting it pop out slicked and full and ready to be covered in cum. I want him to think about what his cock will look like sliding over my bottom lip. I want him to picture my lip lowering to take the head into my mouth, staring up. I want him to lose track of sentences mid-way through because he can feel the pulse in his cock as I open my mouth to eat or drink or just to show him I want more, and I want it then.
I like to bend over for him. To pick things up off the floor, to show him am ass ripe for the beating. I arch my back and want him to long to grope and to touch, where ever we are. I want him to shift in his seat as he thinks about the spanking, the paddling, the caning, and the fucking which will ensue. I want him to get lost in his thoughts about how it will feel to squeeze the soft flesh of my ass before he takes it, claims it, marks it.
I love to tease. I love to sit on his lap and grind through my panties onto his stiffening cock. I love to feel it get hard against me, love as his eyes remain fixed on mine. I get wet knowing that I am turning him on. I get soaked knowing that I will give up all control; that I will give him everything, every hole, and still - knowing that may only be moments away. Nothing gets me wetter than knowing that no matter what is to come, and no matter how much he will push me, how much he will own and control and destroy and rebuild, that in this moment I have made him hard and I have made him want. This is where I am powerful.
Wednesday, October 10, 2012
An ode to functional furniture
The thing about bar stools that's always nice is that they're often a perfect height. Not just the seat, but also the bars on the bottom. Granted, I'm not too tall, but the way my knees bend and my heels can hook into the bar is perfect to open and close my legs.
It's ideal, though, to be able to order a drink at the same time that a man (or a boy, lets not discirminate) can get on his knees and eat my cunt right there. I can arch my back, lean forward into him, put my hand on the back of his head, unemcumbered by soft, squishing cushions or had wooden arms. I have a full range of motion to keep my legs wide, pull my skirt back, and slide to the edge of the wooden stool.
And he has all the access he needs. His mouth can stay on my clit for as long as I want, and while he may have to turn his head a bit to suck on my swollen cunt, it is only going to offer a fuller range of options ofr how he will make me cum. Because he will make me cum.
When I want his fingers all I have to do is arch forward a bit more. I shift my hips and slide, and he can immediately push his fingers deep into my cunt, curling forward as my shoulders drop back.
I can pull his head forward as hard as I want, legs wide as I begin to grind on his face, as his knees begin to ache and as my skirt, no longer held back by my hands, delicately touches his forehead. I can grind my wet cunt into his face over and over as he sucks and licks me. I can whimper and close my eyes, as this stool is not moving. I can pull my legs forward a bit, not worrying that they will move, as my heels remain locked into the pole, so well placed on the stool for me.
And when I cum, when my cum runs out over his tongue and down onto the chair, over his lips and into his mouth and over his chin and down onto the slicked wood of the stool, clean up will be so easy. I will make him lick it up, every drop, before shifting my hips back, and finishing my drink.
It's ideal, though, to be able to order a drink at the same time that a man (or a boy, lets not discirminate) can get on his knees and eat my cunt right there. I can arch my back, lean forward into him, put my hand on the back of his head, unemcumbered by soft, squishing cushions or had wooden arms. I have a full range of motion to keep my legs wide, pull my skirt back, and slide to the edge of the wooden stool.
And he has all the access he needs. His mouth can stay on my clit for as long as I want, and while he may have to turn his head a bit to suck on my swollen cunt, it is only going to offer a fuller range of options ofr how he will make me cum. Because he will make me cum.
When I want his fingers all I have to do is arch forward a bit more. I shift my hips and slide, and he can immediately push his fingers deep into my cunt, curling forward as my shoulders drop back.
I can pull his head forward as hard as I want, legs wide as I begin to grind on his face, as his knees begin to ache and as my skirt, no longer held back by my hands, delicately touches his forehead. I can grind my wet cunt into his face over and over as he sucks and licks me. I can whimper and close my eyes, as this stool is not moving. I can pull my legs forward a bit, not worrying that they will move, as my heels remain locked into the pole, so well placed on the stool for me.
And when I cum, when my cum runs out over his tongue and down onto the chair, over his lips and into his mouth and over his chin and down onto the slicked wood of the stool, clean up will be so easy. I will make him lick it up, every drop, before shifting my hips back, and finishing my drink.
Monday, October 1, 2012
Flight
"Walk slowly."
My hands grip a little tighter on the side. I consciously try and place each foot purposely on every step. Once the heel of one foot is securely on a step, then and only then can the step begin and I raise my heel on the previous step.
"Good girl."
He is behind me. I expect him to pull my skirt up. I was instructed to not wear panties (nor a bra) and so I know that if he walks far enough behind me, he will see the curve of my ass as I walk in front of him. If he looks hard enough, he will see the wetness that is spreading down my thighs.
Every step is achingly slow and methodical. I feel him come up behind me and know he is not interested in looking at my ass. His hand slides over my hip and stops at my stomach, holding me mid-step.
My breath catches and my cunt tenses. I can feel it begin to ache. His other hand moves under my skirt and my breath simply stops. It holds in my lungs, waiting. All energy, all thought, all blood goes immediately to my aching pussy.
I ache and I listen. Standing in the stairway of my apartment building there are 15 doors outside of mine and any could open and see. They could all see that I am him slut. That I belong. That I am weak and owned and a dirty little wanton cunt. I am dripping and at any moment, a door could open and people I must face, must live above and below and beside would know. I hold my breath to hear better, but all I can hear is his breath in my ear.
His fingers move against my swollen clit. I want to moan but I hold on. My mind is broken, trying to focus on the noises of the rest of the building but it keeps slipping towards my cunt. It is a tilting slab of slicked ice, and I am gripping desperately and failing miserably.
His fingers press and slide up and down my slicked, soaked clit. My hips move back and forth as I try and get more of his hands, more pressure. I step my legs wider, my hand covering his and pushing myself harder.
"You slut." I nod. God, I want him desparately. I would let him do anything to me, here or anywhere. "You're so wet." I nod again. "Is it because you're my little whore?" I nod vigorously.
I tremble as his fingers leave my clit and tap me on the ass to keep walking.
My feet begin to move fast but I quickly catch myself. Every step becomes slow and thoughtful again. I focus on the steps. I don't want to focus on my dripping pussy. I don't want to focus on him behind me, or the stiff cock that I want inside me. I just want to think about each step.
I turn, ascending another staircase. I take one step, then two, then three, then he stops me. My breath stops with my feet. My heart, on the other hand, pounds. My breath is quick, chest rising and falling in short staccato.
I feel his hands move under my shirt, finding my tight nipples. He begins to twist, to pull.
"Breathe, baby." I nod, my chest rapidly rising and collapsing. My heart is all I hear, thought I try and listen for doors. Recently realizing that I'm still afraid of the dark, I struggle to hear every sound and fight to ignore them at the same time. I can hear as someone turns on a television, begins cooking, openings and closing cabinets recklessly. My bottom lip trembles and I am consumed with fear that someone will see that I am a slut, violated by hands and fingers of this man.
That someone will see me for who I am.
I will give him everything. I will give him all my holes. I will give him boundaries and wetness and orgasms and spit and my throat and tears and pain and flesh and pain and whimpering and begging and absolute devotion.
My heart pounds as I hear more movement, as the genuine fear that someone will open a door and I will not be able to pull away are all very real. I desperately want to hide. I don't want anyone to see this vulnerable, shaking, needy little cunt. I cannot control myself with him behind me, around me, inside me.
And in this hallway, on this staircase, as I am fucked, as his fingers slide into my cunt and I grind down into them. I push downward and lower my head, giving up and hearing all the noises. I don't care. I want them to see. I want them to see how I will do anything for him. I grind down onto his fingers, my cunt dripping. I haven't been this wet in longer than I can remember but this moment has brought back everything. It has made my cunt swell. It has made my pussy ache to be filled by his fingers and cock. I fuck his fingers, holding with one hand onto the railing, a flight away from my apartment, knowing that I could not wait. I couldn't stop him and beg him to fuck me behind closed doors. I needed it now - needed to feel as he slides in and out, as cum drips down my legs. I drop my head, not noticing but also not caring if someone sees. I am a dirty slut. I am a begging whore. My cum drips down his fingers, down into his hand. This cum is his. This cunt is his. These painfully tight, cruelly pulled nipples are his. This open, gasping mouth is his. This tight asshole is his.
And in this moment, all my dignity, all my shame, all of it. His.
My hands grip a little tighter on the side. I consciously try and place each foot purposely on every step. Once the heel of one foot is securely on a step, then and only then can the step begin and I raise my heel on the previous step.
"Good girl."
He is behind me. I expect him to pull my skirt up. I was instructed to not wear panties (nor a bra) and so I know that if he walks far enough behind me, he will see the curve of my ass as I walk in front of him. If he looks hard enough, he will see the wetness that is spreading down my thighs.
Every step is achingly slow and methodical. I feel him come up behind me and know he is not interested in looking at my ass. His hand slides over my hip and stops at my stomach, holding me mid-step.
My breath catches and my cunt tenses. I can feel it begin to ache. His other hand moves under my skirt and my breath simply stops. It holds in my lungs, waiting. All energy, all thought, all blood goes immediately to my aching pussy.
I ache and I listen. Standing in the stairway of my apartment building there are 15 doors outside of mine and any could open and see. They could all see that I am him slut. That I belong. That I am weak and owned and a dirty little wanton cunt. I am dripping and at any moment, a door could open and people I must face, must live above and below and beside would know. I hold my breath to hear better, but all I can hear is his breath in my ear.
His fingers move against my swollen clit. I want to moan but I hold on. My mind is broken, trying to focus on the noises of the rest of the building but it keeps slipping towards my cunt. It is a tilting slab of slicked ice, and I am gripping desperately and failing miserably.
His fingers press and slide up and down my slicked, soaked clit. My hips move back and forth as I try and get more of his hands, more pressure. I step my legs wider, my hand covering his and pushing myself harder.
"You slut." I nod. God, I want him desparately. I would let him do anything to me, here or anywhere. "You're so wet." I nod again. "Is it because you're my little whore?" I nod vigorously.
I tremble as his fingers leave my clit and tap me on the ass to keep walking.
My feet begin to move fast but I quickly catch myself. Every step becomes slow and thoughtful again. I focus on the steps. I don't want to focus on my dripping pussy. I don't want to focus on him behind me, or the stiff cock that I want inside me. I just want to think about each step.
I turn, ascending another staircase. I take one step, then two, then three, then he stops me. My breath stops with my feet. My heart, on the other hand, pounds. My breath is quick, chest rising and falling in short staccato.
I feel his hands move under my shirt, finding my tight nipples. He begins to twist, to pull.
"Breathe, baby." I nod, my chest rapidly rising and collapsing. My heart is all I hear, thought I try and listen for doors. Recently realizing that I'm still afraid of the dark, I struggle to hear every sound and fight to ignore them at the same time. I can hear as someone turns on a television, begins cooking, openings and closing cabinets recklessly. My bottom lip trembles and I am consumed with fear that someone will see that I am a slut, violated by hands and fingers of this man.
That someone will see me for who I am.
I will give him everything. I will give him all my holes. I will give him boundaries and wetness and orgasms and spit and my throat and tears and pain and flesh and pain and whimpering and begging and absolute devotion.
My heart pounds as I hear more movement, as the genuine fear that someone will open a door and I will not be able to pull away are all very real. I desperately want to hide. I don't want anyone to see this vulnerable, shaking, needy little cunt. I cannot control myself with him behind me, around me, inside me.
And in this hallway, on this staircase, as I am fucked, as his fingers slide into my cunt and I grind down into them. I push downward and lower my head, giving up and hearing all the noises. I don't care. I want them to see. I want them to see how I will do anything for him. I grind down onto his fingers, my cunt dripping. I haven't been this wet in longer than I can remember but this moment has brought back everything. It has made my cunt swell. It has made my pussy ache to be filled by his fingers and cock. I fuck his fingers, holding with one hand onto the railing, a flight away from my apartment, knowing that I could not wait. I couldn't stop him and beg him to fuck me behind closed doors. I needed it now - needed to feel as he slides in and out, as cum drips down my legs. I drop my head, not noticing but also not caring if someone sees. I am a dirty slut. I am a begging whore. My cum drips down his fingers, down into his hand. This cum is his. This cunt is his. These painfully tight, cruelly pulled nipples are his. This open, gasping mouth is his. This tight asshole is his.
And in this moment, all my dignity, all my shame, all of it. His.
Thursday, September 27, 2012
Seriously, though...
Seriously, though... tell me more about these same-sex spankings. I'm outraged, Texas. Tell me more.
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