Category Archives: Kinky Stuff

Kittens Are Not Tigers

“You were my single period, you know? And the stuff we did was incredible. I want that. I want more. But my girlfriend isn’t adventurous like you. What can I do?”

I try to answer kindly, because I remember you kindly. This is how you tell her what you like. This is how you explain to her what it means to you. Here are books and blogs, so if she wants to learn more about kink, about swinging, she can do it on her own time.

But all you can do is open that door. You can’t change what she likes any more than she can change what you like, and it would be monstrous of you to try. Don’t forget to listen to what she likes. Don’t forget to learn what that means to her.

I try to answer kindly, but there is a storm lifting my hair in electric ire. I want to say: Of course it was incredible. I know it. You know it. You’re the one who stopped it. You’re the one who chose a girl for her sweetness. How dare you come back to say “help, I’m lucky enough that this perfect, soft kitten is purring just for me…how do I make her a tiger? Only sometimes. Only when it suits me.” How dare you. Do you know how insulting it is to me, that the wantonness that made me undateable is what you want to cultivate in her now? Do you know how insulting it is to her, to tell her you could be happy with her in vanilla monogamy, when you knew you lied?

Kittens are not tigers. You cannot seek the company of something tame and train it to be wild.

I can promise you this: you won’t forget me. Years from now you will catch a glimpse of red hair out of a window and that will be it. The memory of what we did will hit you so hard you stop mid-sentence. You’ll need to brush the gooseflesh from your arms and shake your head to clear it of the echo of my gasps. You won’t miss me–we weren’t close enough for that–but you’ll wonder, a little rueful, why it can’t be like that with her, whoever she is.

I can promise you this: you won’t find someone who satisfies you, not until you understand that women who like the things you do aren’t too perverse to date. That they’re whole sexual being before you ever meet them, that they can and will and should explore their desire when and with whom they see fit. That as long as you think this taints or degrades them, you must see what you want to do as degrading. That they deserve more respect than that (that we all deserve more respect than that). You won’t find a partner who’s right for you until you stop searching only among women you’d have to change to fit you. Because kittens are not tigers. And they deserve to be adored for who they are, not pushed miserable into who you want them to be.

More Isn’t Enough

Sent e-mail, a long time ago:

What do you think it means, when I say I want to hurt you? Biting, scratching, pulling hair? I want those things (God, I do). But that isn’t what I mean by it. I want to push harder, to slap you, to hit you until you’re bruised and shaking. I want to see how much pain you can take before you stop wanting to get closer. I want to hurt you until you say to stop, and I would stop (of course) and then refuse to touch you at all until you begged to be hurt again.

I don’t want to be gentle. I want to crash into you as hard as I can and see which of us breaks first. You make me feel drawn back like a bow, and it was so hard to let that tension out slowly, to hurt you only a little, to kiss you and pull away again when I feel a feral need to bite and choke, to grab and pull your limbs into strange contortions. I am greedy and unfair. I want to keep you talking. I want your mouth on mine. And of course you can’t do both–no one could–but the point is that I want more, impossibly more. I suspect you’d try to give me more, to try to please me. But more isn’t enough and you can’t please me. I want to taste flesh and fear, to curl my bloody fingers around your liver, scrape my tendons over your bones like a bow across a violin. I want to make you scream and I want to cover your mouth with mine to keep it silent. I want you whimpering and pleading and desperate, if only to get some measure of revenge for the fact that I can’t get you out of my head.

The only thing that possibly mitigates this at all is that it’s unsustainable, that eventually I’d be satiated and calm and want to snuggle and put back the pieces. But all the rest of it? If that doesn’t scare you, at least a little bit, it should. I know it scares me.

I’m missing this, these days. I was missing it then, too, with the particular frustrating delight of having someone to send an e-mail like this to, but not within reach. I’m craving violence, prowling like a predator in a cage. There is nothing to hunt, here. Nothing but lizards and little birds that aren’t any kind of game. The truth is with no one in sight I lose focus. I miss the wanting as much as the violence, the feedback that leaves me needing more and more on top of more until exhaustion hits and I’m still not sated.

Red in Tooth and Claw

He’s puppy-eager, all sweetness and smiles. We haven’t made plans for after the show, haven’t ruled them out either. He suggests a wine bar. I don’t drink wine. “Well, I kinda have a surprise for you, if you want to come back to my place? Maybe. Do you like surprises?”

I don’t like surprises, as a rule, but he’s sweet and eager enough that I’m willing to humor him. It’s an under-bed restraint, the kind with velcro cuffs. He’s suddenly shy, showing it to me. “I don’t know if you like– I don’t want to freak you out.”

I laugh. I know I shouldn’t. It’s good that he’s cautious; he barely knows me. I move in close to him. “I’m not freaked out. Though I don’t know if you’re a top or a bottom?”

“Um. Top, usually. But I like both. You?”

“Total switch.”

“So how about you tie me down first, and we’ll switch later if you want?”

“Mhmm.”

I kiss him, partly because I feel awkward and unsure what to say, mostly because I’ve been wanting to since he first showed his teeth. I’m in heels. Even pulling his hair to tilt his face up, I have to lean down to reach him.

He shuffles. “The problem with being short.”

“It’s not a problem.” I step out of my shoes. But–“I’m on my period. Is that going to bother you?”

“What? No. Wait–does it mean I can’t eat you out?”

“Depends how you feel about blood, I guess.”

I’m wary. Plenty of men have told me they have no problem with menstruation–until they see or feel or smell blood and they’re suddenly shocked and disgusted. But we’ll see.

He’s cuffed to the bed, tense and straining. I am holding him by his hair and one wrist. I’m kissing him. There are a thousand things I want to do with him, and all of them have to wait. I can’t stop kissing him. I can try. I can tease, pull just out of reach and let him strain against my grip in his hair to reach me. But then I look at him, so open and hopeful. But then he says “please” and I want to devour him. This is still kissing, isn’t it? If it’s mostly teeth, if I’m not sure whether he’s tilting his head to get closer or because he’s afraid I’ll break skin?

“What are you up for?”

“Whatever you’re comfortable with.”

I lean back on my heels, try not to sigh. He should know better. It’s a conversation we should have, but right now we’re both giddy with sex. Right now, if he can’t be specific, I can.

“Are you ticklish?”

“What?”

I graze my nails across the soles of his feet. He thrashes. “Oh, shit!” I keep tickling. I’m listening for it. It doesn’t take long for him to choke a “stop!” out through helpless laughter.

“Stop?” My hands are already off of him.

“I mean–you don’t have to.”

“You said stop. I do have to.” I move over him. “How do you feel about biting?” My mouth is an inch from his skin.

“Okay. Good.”

He tenses as my teeth sink in. He is moving in small waves, making small sounds. He marks easily. My teeth leave rising welts above a tattoo, below his ribs, across his collarbone. He’s moving but so quiet. I look up at him. He’s biting his lip. “What, I’m not biting hard enough?” I laugh. “If you need more…” I bite hard enough to make him hiss.

He laughs. “Am I bleeding?”

“I’m not biting that hard.” I bite harder.

“Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck” Curses rattle out of him like a screen door in a storm, and God, what it does to me to see him so nearly unhinged.

I have one hand on his cock to anchor me while I drift over him. I take him in my mouth, only for a moment. I don’t want to take my eyes off his skin, off the lines my fingernails are leaving. He’s making sounds that aren’t words. I’d rather hear words. “What do you want?”

“I want you to fuck me.” He’s breathless. It’s beautiful.

“Condoms*?”

He lets his head thump back on the mattress. “In the car.”

I laugh. There’s no chance I’m getting dressed and walking across the street in the middle of the night to rummage through his car for a condom. I know I’ll want one later, but for now–“you want to fuck me?”

“Yes.”

“That’s too bad.” His whole body jerks. I’m kneeling over him, teasing, just out of reach. He’s begging. Please, and your skin is so soft, I can’t stand not touching it and please. And I tease. At some point he’s beyond caring if we use a condom or not, or maybe he knows he can say whatever he wants and it won’t make a difference. And I laugh again. It’s a delight to have him this desperate. He’s begging me to kiss him, to just let his hands free, to let him get me off. I let him loose; I want his hands on me as much as he does.

He slides his fingers into me, and I stop trying to think at all. We are lines and angles and waves. I’ve lost track of my hands, try not to notice it, focus on his. I’m too loud, too shaken. It’s a struggle to sit up, after. “Oh. Fuck.”

“What’s wrong?”

“You’re pretty much covered in blood.”

He looks down. It’s not much of an exaggeration. I’m bracing for disgust, my own as much as his. He grins. “Badass.”

I’m too floored to speak. His mouth is on mine before I have to. We keep going. Keep saying it’s time to run down to the car but we wear ourselves out first, don’t break apart until dehydration forces us to.

We look like the aftermath of a slaughter.


*I always, always carry condoms in my purse. Regular, latex-free, textured, plus a few packets of lube. But I wasn’t carrying magnums. This oversight has since been remedied.

Bluebeard’s Castle

It’s a rare thing for anyone to admit dark fantasies unfiltered. Ferns wrote about sharing them in Darker, and God, it’s beautiful. Not for me the gore but the intimacy. The vulnerability. Above all the oh-thank-fuck moment of seeing that I’m not the only person whose desires veer out to sea.

Sharing fantasies carries risk. We can horrify, alienate, become suddenly sick and dangerous in a lover’s eyes. Here’s a conundrum for you: we’re supposed to be able to open every locked door. Someday, at least, to someone. Can we? Without leaving them lost, trapped, forever changed?

There are fantasies I don’t talk about. They frighten me. They go dark places I’ve never dared tell a partner about. I get off imagining games I never intend to play (but oh, God, do I want to).

How do I talk about the things I hide?

How far can Judith walk in Bluebeard’s castle?

I’ve been texting someone I knew a long time ago. Intensely. Pulling at each other with so much greed across two thousand miles that insist later, later, patience, later. So what do we have to share but photographs and fantasies? And while we can’t touch, do we have to worry so much about what could be real and reasonable? There’s some caution. It’s hard to hit send without wondering, is this what you want? will you still want me when you’ve seen the torture chamber, the armory, the treasury all shining with blood? But there’s a thrill to it, isn’t there?

I’m greedy. He offers a fantasy: Please select a level of violence from 1 to 10, with 1 being vanilla and 10 being emergency services.

I suggested seven. I know it’s asking to open a door, anything over five, and I wonder if he will. What he told me was hot enough to make me tremble (though I’d have likely ranked it at a four). But he also said this: “seven sounds reasonable. I don’t have any that are ten, I don’t think.”

And here I check the locks. Because I do. I have tens and twelves and maybe a fifteen. Do you think violence stops at EMS? That there’s no want feral enough to raze and ruin until there’s nothing left to save? How many stories do we have where desire ends in death, in war?

Will you still want me when you’ve seen the torture chamber? The armory?

We all have locked rooms. They keep us safe. Time and pain and betrayals make us wary of letting people in. Who has the keys to which of our doors, who may walk where unsupervised, how do we handle it when someone tries a door to a room we aren’t ready to invite them into?

It isn’t just violence that hides. There are fantasies I’d rank an eight on that scale but never voice, one that grazes ten that I have. There are other kinds of darkness, thoughts that dare not be illuminated. And always when they cross my mind there’s that terrified flicker behind them–what if I were to say them aloud? What if I were one day to cross that unspeakable line? What would it take?


 

If you’re interested in fiction that plays on the darkest edge of the erotic, some of the stories in Joel Lane’s The Lost District can take you there.

Bartok’s opera of Bluebeard’s Castle is well worth a listen, if you’re wondering about those doors and keys. It is genuinely chilling, exactly as it should be.

Confessions

“I keep telling myself I won’t come back here.” He’s sprawled in my chair, clutching one of my books.

“We don’t have to have sex. That’s not the only reason I call, you know.” It doesn’t occur to me until much later that it’s the only reason he answers.

“When you called–I was trying to figure out how to break up with you. Except I can’t.”

I laugh. He looks up at me. “Sorry, just…wouldn’t we have to be together before we could break up?”

“Well, if you’re going to be sensible about it…”

“So why can’t you?”

“Mm?”

“Stop coming back. It’s because I beat you at Smash Bros, isn’t it. You want a rematch.”

“Yeah, that’s definitely not it.” He stands up, looking for a place to put the book down. I get up and put it away before I give him my attention.

We’re face to face and too close to be coy. I take his hat off to run my fingers through his hair. He leans into me, close enough that his nose brushes my cheek and then bumps closer. Close enough that not kissing is unreasonable, deliberate torment.

“We don’t have to.”

“Do you want to?”

“Yes, but you’re always miserable after.” I’ve pulled back. “I like sex. I like sex with you. I don’t want to be the awful woman who makes you sin.”

“Awful.” His voice is soft, his mouth so close to mine. “You aren’t making me do anything. Only making me want to.” I don’t know what to say. My hands are on his hip, on the back of his neck. All I want to do is pull him closer. I’ve initiated every time and I’m afraid he only half wants it. I stand still. He moves closer. “Lord, give me temperance…but not yet.”

Not yet. I don’t kiss him and he doesn’t kiss me. We let go, slam together with the inevitability of gravity. His weight and his intensity drive me back until my legs hit the bed. When I fall I drag him after me. His teeth close on my throat. I’m trying to stay quiet, not sure if my roommate is home. She used to go out with him. I’m not sure how awkward this is for her. I’m pulling his hair, snarling, wrapping my legs around him. I want to tear his clothes off. I have no intention of putting enough distance between us to get him out of them.

He rolls away to unbutton my shirt. There’s no fumbling: he’s neat and focused. I fling the shirt on the floor as soon as I can jerk my arms out of it. I reach to untuck his but he pulls back. “Did I do that?”

I look down. My upper arms are covered in leopard-spot bruises. “Yeah.” I grin. “I think you missed a spot.”

He runs his hands over my shoulders, too gently. I lean into the pressure, groan a little when he tightens his grip. His mouth lands on mine. It’s unexpected–I’ve kissed him before, and he kisses well, but he always moves away to kiss and bite every other inch of skin he can find. This time I hold him in place. We don’t break apart until I pull his t-shirt over his head.

I slide out of the rest of my clothes and onto his lap. He reaches between my legs to pop the button on his jeans, then stops. “Condoms?”

Hell. “Yes, but not– Roommate needed–” I trail off. He doesn’t need to know she’s fucking someone else, or who. “I don’t know if she’s home.” I keep a bowl of them on my desk. They don’t fit him and neither of us needs the fear of another one breaking.

“Not when I got here.” He stands up. “I know where she keeps them. I’ll explain if she’s here.” I consider arguing that I should go, but he has clothes on and I don’t. I nod. He’s only gone a few seconds, long enough for me to get nervous again. He notices. “You okay?”

I stand to put my arms around his neck. “Could be better.” He grins and lets me pull his face up to mine. I’m biting his lip hard. He dips slightly, pushing his jeans down. He catches my thighs in his hands as he straightens back up, lifts me off the ground. We teeter a moment before tumbling onto the bed. He lands on top of me. His hand slides up my thigh. I’m gasping, pushing closer to him, but he shoves me down. His teeth close on flesh an inch below my collarbone. I curl my fingers in his hair, not sure whether to pull him closer or away. “Will you please fuck me already?”

There’s a moment of fumbling with the condom. He’s shy of being watched, and I like his shyness. “Are you sure–?” I pull his hips toward me. “Yes.” He pushes into me slowly. He’s watching my face, almost comically concerned. It does hurt. His cock is the largest I’ve seen and I’m not in the habit of using lube. But I like the pain. I thrust against him hard, making us both groan out loud. I hold still, a shivering line of tension from shoulder to cunt. It takes a moment before I can stop gasping long enough to speak. “Fuck me. Hard.”

It’s his turn to shiver. He does, choking out half-sentences between gasps while I dig my nails into his back. I’m not listening. I tell him to bite, yes, harder, and he does, with one hand over my mouth to muffle the screaming when I come. And again. We’re all shuddering sweat and sound blending together. He moans “I’m going to…ngh. Please–”

I don’t remember if I answered–I was somewhere past words and his “please” pushed me over the edge again. His whole body jerked, knocked the breath out of me. When he rolled over he pulled me on top of him and held on tight.

We lay there a long time, not talking, or if we did talk it wasn’t about much. I asked if he was going to stay the night. He wasn’t, and he took that as his cue to check the time and pull on his jeans. I watch from bed, too content to move.

“Still think you’re going to stop coming back here?”

He grins at me from the doorway. “Not yet.”

Hurt Me

“Please choke me.”

He will. His hand will close around my throat until my lungs burn, until my eyes water, until my body’s fight to breathe makes me shake. I gasp when he lets go. The air won’t come. I have to peel off each breath like a ragged strip of wallpaper. I recover quickly, hungry for him. He shoves me away with a hand tight around my throat before I can bring my mouth to his.

“Please bite me.”

He will. His teeth close around my nipple, building pressure while I writhe and grind against him, sobbing between tea-kettle shrieks. He almost almost almost breaks skin. The surface will scab over tomorrow though it doesn’t bleed. He’s on the edge of tearing me apart while I try to tear myself away.

“Please hit me.”

He will. His fist will send tremors through my thigh, over and over. He might let me twist some new target into reach, work me over like dough folding under his hands. Or he might pin me down, make a swollen, purple mess of me, reduce me to a few small inches of exploding pain.

“Please don’t lie to me.”

He will. I’m trying not to ask “what’s her name?” Trying not to wonder if she’s young, if she knows she’s not the only one, if she trusts him. If I were a better person, I might even care.

I ask for what I need. I’m not too proud for that. He says yes, always. He follows through, sometimes. I’m grateful every time he does. I can’t get angry when he doesn’t.

There’s plenty to say. Volumes, easily. But I’m tired and I’ve said it all before and nothing’s changed. I’ve run out of words. There’s nothing left but “please,” and pleas don’t mean a damn thing.

Full Sentences

We’ve been flirting most of the evening. It’s a distraction, one he’s far too busy for, but he lets it go on. He’s tentative, eager, overly polite. He flirts like a rabbit coming for treats, one soft paw at a time. Are you here to see me? are those what I think they are? am I being too presumptuous? I keep goading, amused that he’s stuck at work. It has to be frustrating. He stays cheerful: “at least I’ll be able to relieve some tension when I get home.”

I tell him not to. It seems too textbook Domme, makes me self conscious. Still, if I was going to wait, so could he. But then–“Can I call you when I get home and discuss this?” He has me smiling, and he rarely calls. I say yes. I wonder if I’ll let him convince me.

He calls before he gets home. It’s late enough to call it early, had either of us slept. He’s had a long day, sounds cheerful in spite of it. He makes me laugh more than once. I try to keep my voice low, mindful of Spouse sleeping in the next room. It doesn’t take him long to get home. There’s a moment of fumbling and “um”s before he says “So, let’s talk turkey.”

“Talk turkey.” I’m trying to keep the laughter out of my voice. He gets flustered so easily, I don’t want to scare him off of talking.

“Well, I was hoping–I really want to relieve some of this tension tonight.” I still don’t know how he can still be so bashful, after knowing me so many years.

“Why should I let you?”

“I–uh–really want to? I mean, if you say wait, I’ll wait.”

“Well, convince me. You said you could beg. Try it.”

“Um. If you let me, I won’t again fora few days if you want. Or–”

I cut him off. “You’re negotiating. I thought you were going to beg.”

He pauses, long enough that I worry that was the wrong thing to say. “I’m sorry. I’m still in work mode.” He clears his throat. I suspect it’s all bravado. He says he can beg but it’s a rare skill, takes a vulnerability he doesn’t typically show. “Please,” he says. It’s clipped. He starts to say something more, stops, tries again.

I’m the queen of uncomfortable silences. I can ride them straight to shore and I know they’ll break underneath me. They almost always do. But I’m impatient, don’t want to wait long enough for amusement to become annoyance. “I’ll make you a deal.”

“A deal! Okay.” Too relieved. Still in work mode, I suppose.

“You can come–”

“Thank you–”

“But stay on the phone, and don’t stop talking.”

“Okay, I can do that. Should–I mean–can I start now?”

I still find it hilarious that he’s this shy, as if naming anything sexual could possibly offend.

“What should I talk about?”

I swear I’m going to laugh and he’s going to die of embarrassment. “Surely something comes to mind.”

He says something about a video game. (It’s been two years; I don’t remember which one.) “No.” At least I don’t sound ready to laugh this time.

“Um. Okay. Different topic. Um.” He pauses. I count silently to three.

“If you stop talking I might change my mind.”

“Oh! Did you hear about this movie–”

“No.”

“That’s not a good topic either, huh?”

“Is that really what you’re thinking about right now?”

“You didn’t say I had to tell you what I’m thinking.”

“What are you thinking?”

“Well, like we talked about before. You holding me down, kissing me, hurting me, but this time you’d let me come–I can’t fantasize about not having an orgasm while I have one.” He falls silent. He’s breathing a little harder. I count to three again.

“Keep talking.” I try to put a warning in my voice, am not sure it carries through. I lean back, run my fingers over my own skin. “Be specific.”

“You–um. I’d want to kiss you hard, the way you like it. Then you’d climb on top of me.”

If it were just words, I’d be losing interest. But his ragged breathing and the hint of a whimper and knowing how far outside his comfort zone this is have me toying with the edge of my panties. “Keep talking.”

He makes a strangled sound. I smile, listening to him breathe too heavily. “You–you climb on top of me and start riding me. You pull my hair. And when I don’t move fast–er–hard enough for you, you lean down and lick and bite my ears and–” His breathing is too raw and ragged to speak for a moment “–when you do that I thrust harder. You don’t–” He moans. I’m beyond distracted, dying for his mouth on mine, since words are nowhere near enough. “You tell me you’re not done with me yet.”

Pause. Count. one, two, three. He’s making sounds, beginnings of words too shy to fully form.

“Full sentences.”

“Uh, it’s a little hard to–right. So you’re getting loud and trying to keep from screaming [aside: I’m rarely that considerate]. I still feel very submissive to you [is that part of his fantasy, or something he’s telling me now?]. And–can I–after you come a couple of times–I’d like to fantasize that I can make you if that’s okay–”

“Keep talking.”

“After that–” he’s gasping between words “–you decide I’m allowed to orgasm and–uh–say–” he whimpers.

“That’s my good boy,” I say, at the same time he says “call me a good boy?” in such a pleading tone. His breath catches, for a moment I think he’s dropped the phone. “You say that, and it’s like you flipped a switch and I could. Thank you for letting me–” So much shyness, still. I suppose he’s not sure what’s meant to happen next.

“Feel better?”

“Yes.”

“Good. You should get some sleep now.”

We say good-nights and hang up. I stay awake, frustrated but still smiling, wishing there were less distance, less inhibition between us.

 

Sent e-mail, September 2012

Came across this cleaning up old e-mails. I’m not an aural person. Words move me, but not so much voices, sounds. Reading this brought back the ensuing phone call more vividly than I’d have expected, every shy hesitation and the static and carpet too rough under my legs.

You may have a problem.

I can’t get the way you say please–all breathless and half out of control–out of my head. It’s the sexiest thing I’ve heard in a long time. I don’t care that you hate to wait, or that knowing you want something makes me want to be the one to give it to you. I want to deny you something, anything, everything, just so you have to call, to beg. And if you don’t sound earnest enough, or if it doesn’t make my breath skip the way I want it to, I’ll just have to say no again. And if just thinking about this gets me as hot as it does, I can only imagine how it would feel to do it.

Like I said, you may have a problem.

“Doesn’t it hurt?”

I’ve just mentioned wanting another tattoo to the girl I’m partnered with on this project. She’s surprised to hear I have any: they’re not large and easily covered. She doesn’t ask what design, or where, or what ink I already have. She doesn’t even ask why I like it. She asks what most people who have no body art do when talking to those who do: “Doesn’t it hurt?”

Well, yeah, it does a little.

So?

First of all, I’m a sexual masochist. I get off on pain. So I wouldn’t call the pain a drawback.

That’s hardly relevant though. The pain isn’t the reason I go for piercings and tattoos, but if I didn’t like pain it still wouldn’t be a reason not to get them. Pain is a side effect, usually fairly mild.

“But doesn’t it hurt?”

My partner plucks her eyebrows. She goes to the gym regularly. She’s lamented that a sunburn would be “so worth it, if I could just tan!” Pain for beauty is a transaction we widely accept. If someone believes the misery of yanking out eyebrows one by one every [however often one plucks eyebrows] for years on end is worth the result, surely they can understand that a single sitting followed by a brief recovery in exchange for a permanent desired modification is a better return on investment.

We do things that hurt. Not because we like the pain (though some of us do), but because we value what it brings us. Pain is a side effect.

“But doesn’t it hurt?” is a stupid question. Of course it hurts. If something breaks the skin and there’s zero pain you’re probably looking at some serious nerve damage. Anyone who asks already knows this. The question is really “what kind of person would endure pain for body art?” The question shows a certain idea about body modification: that it’s barbaric, disgusting. That (unlike a perfectly arched eyebrow), it has no value.

That’s actually okay. I don’t care if this girl, or my mother, or any number of other people think piercings and tattoos are worthless or shameful or otherwise problematic. That’s a conversation I’m willing to have. But “doesn’t it hurt?” can only be answered with a “yes,” and it’s in no way fair to use that yes as evidence against body modification as a practice. It really isn’t relevant.

Also, seriously? I beg folks to hit me with blunt objects until they can’t lift their arms anymore. I’m supposed to be scared of half a second with a piercing needle? Please.

Ripcord

It’s late. I’m alone in a hotel room in a city I’ve never been to before.

It’s late, but I can’t sleep. I’m alone, states away from anyone I could call at this hour. I’m texting  a partner back home, flirting and sending pictures back and forth, both getting more frustrated but not getting off. He’s teasing me for being insatiable. It’s a fair taunt, but not one I plan to let slide.


I’m sure I can find a way to entertain myself for a few nights alone.

Oh?

Yes, I came prepared. [I send a snapshot of a sheet of clothespins leaning against my thigh.]

And you plan to entertain yourself how, exactly?

That’s up to you.

[He tells me where to attach them. I send a photo when it’s done.]

Like this?

Looks about right…needs more clips though.

Yeah, well. TSA might have looked askance at that. Fuck, pulling these off is going to hurt.

Isn’t that the idea? Is it worse to wait or pull as soon as possible?

Waiting. Gives things a chance to get used to the pinching, then it’s worse when it stops.

That’s what I thought. So let things acclimate then change the climate.

Of course you’d say that. Just what am I meant to do while I’m waiting?

Be patient. [He starts talking about other things, making plans for after I get home.]

Just so you know, breathing makes the clothespins on my ribs shift. Ow.

Aww. Guess it’s just as well I didn’t have you line the whole ribcage, then. I considered a couple of other patterns.

Well, maybe I can try something else after you let me pull these ones off.

Oh, you expect me to let you pull them off.

Fuck.

You bastard.

Yes, that I am. Shouldn’t you be a little nicer if you want me to tell you to pull?

I wish you could be here for this.

Not just because I wish someone else would pull this damn ripcord for me.

Oh? To pull the line or to fuck you mercilessly afterwards?

Or to help keep me quiet when they do come off.

So maybe you should try to convince me.

[Hell. I never beg. I hate begging. If one or two renditions of “please” doesn’t get a result, I settle into a prideful state of “fine, I didn’t need that anyway”]

How would it go if I were there?

How would you want it to?

I don’t know how you’d pull. Jerk the whole string at at once, maybe,  or steadily increase pressure to release one clothespin at a time.

Which is worse?

Whichever is worse? I don’t know which one is worse, they’re both damn near unbearable.

I suspect you’d draw it out. Waiting for that rush of pain to hit is its own special torture, and you do love to torture me.

As if you don’t… I can’t tell if this is about pain or sex right now.

Is there a difference? It hurts. And yes, I’m desperate to come.  My clit is throbbing against that horrible clothespin. What the hell was I thinking, putting one there?

That it would please me. So what is it you want?

I wish you were here. I need to come but not half as badly as I need to taste your cock. I want to make you moan and grab me by the hair. I want to do whatever it is you want me to do.

I want you to keep talking. What do you want?

I want to see your face, what this does to you. I want to fly home right fucking now; to hell with this conference I want you to hurt me.

I need to come. Please. God, I need to come ten minutes ago. My legs are shaking. It hurts. It fucking hurts and I can’t touch myself with all these clothespins in the way.

I’m afraid to pull the cord, afraid I’ll make too much noise. Fuck, it’s going to hurt.

Fast or slow, which is worse? It’s a trick question. Waiting is worse.

Please. I need to come. I need these clothespins off of me so I can shove my fingers in my cunt and imagine they’re yours. Just…please.

Pull.


I’d never begged before. Talking, flirting, demanding others say these things for me, sure, but this was new and a little frightening.

New can be a good thing, right?