Saturday, September 19, 2009


My parlour is misty with frankincense, the walls thrumming with brilliance, my black suit jacket waiting on the bed for me to select what else I will include in the evening's headmaster ensemble. A 2008 Duboeuf beaujolais swirls in the glass I hold to my lips. My cats swirl also, although they are around my ankles.

Soon, I would be selecting an arrangement of tools, toys, and other items of titillating torment. I intend to have fun tonight. My choices will go into a charming little backpack, that being so suitable for the evening's theme and my pet's attire.

It's fitting that the wine is young. Soon, my pet would appear likewise after she arrives here, makes herself up, and dons her new schoolgirl uniform for its intended use.

Before she met me, apart from a less-than-ideal experience with another, bdsm play was little more than a fantasy for her.

Kara attends her first playparty tonight.

"Hey love," she emails me earlier today, "I have just finished spending about a half an hour carefully ironing my skirt, shirt and ties for tonight. It felt ritualistic, this preparing for my Man, preparing for an initiation into a new world.

"I am very nervous, very excited, very turned on! I am thinking out the day ahead: I'm treating myself to a spa day, getting my hair cut, shopping for new make-up since it has been forever since I've had a reason to do a "full-face." I will wax my legs ... and groom other more intimate places ... a day of pampering and ritual."

My pet has a lovely tuft of black fur upon her saucy mound. Within it, her beautiful clitoris stands like a proud pillar to Isis when erect, and her cushions swell like wild fruit around her. She's always well groomed, her dark tuft always a perfect triangle under her navel. In a word, Kara's treasures are breathtaking. For me, she has the perfect cunt.

I wonder: will I slither my fingers between her soaking folds between spanks as her bare little ass is spread across a horse tonight? Will I stroke her to cum before a crowd of fellow kinksters, my ribald friends and comrades at arms? Will the scent of her possessed quim add to the enjoyment of my drink as I raise it to my lips as easily as I raise this wine I enjoy whilst I enter this post to you?

We shall see.

Maybe tonight will be too much for her.

We shall see.

"It has been YEARS since I have been to a party that was not a family-event. This evening is different: it has a theme, it has stations, it has YOU, your sinful body and your wicked mind. I think I will have fun ;) "

You will, pet. We will.

Oh yes.

Thursday, September 17, 2009

Eager to enroll.


At the risk of sounding like Humbert Humbert, I smirked to myself when, recently, the afternoon downtown rush hour found me in a sea of bobbysoxed, tartaned young ladies freshly released from various local parochial schools. It wasn't their age bracket that spied my wandering eye (I enjoy my wine with a few notable years within it as well, thank you), but the fantasy thereof and its relationship to innocence, submission, and proper training protocol.

That is to say, the uniforms, and in observing the sway of wool over tight, cotton socks and with classy, crisp white shirts, my thoughts drifted to Kara's recent and tawdry efforts to please her man. This is what made me smirk.

She'd done some shopping, you see. She's realizing how much fun is possible with Us. She likes it.

With her previous background in theatre, she tells me how sh's thoroughly enjoying fashioning "her new costume." I had intended to buy this for her, and as she cutely apologizes for "taking the wind out of (my) sails," it's clear to see that the little waif is having her fun. Now how could I deny her?

Standing with a sly smile and giggling eyes, she modelled the plaid skirt, the smart little steel clasp pin, and a tight white top. At my instruction, she bent over her stairwell to reveal the lace-trimmed white panties she wore underneath that so delicately framed her amazing little ass.

The same amazing little ass that I made certain to spank a blushing red later that evening. And the same amazing little ass that I intend to bare and punish during an upcoming playparty as she experiences her newfound wardrobe. A few days later, she modelled a pair of Mary Jane shoes that so aptly worked for the ensemble.

Her innocence melts before me. Truly delightful. I am having so much fun corrupting her.

Wednesday, September 16, 2009

A demanding pet.

Date: 15 September 2009 06:11
Subject: Re: gmorning, sexy
From: Kara
To: Rogue

Something I had never thought of before: that once a moment of ours is blogged about, not only can I see your "spin" on it, but I can re-live it over and over. There are so many more things I want to share.

You know, I have to admit when we first met, when I was toodling around online, dom/sub posts definitely caught my eye. I was beginning to wonder what kind of head-space I would have to be in to TAKE that kind of a suggestion seriously, and, not finding an answer to my musings, I let the idea go as just an internal fantasy ... not to be acted upon.

But what excites me with you, and binds me TO you, is and will always be the "headspace". You wooed me in my greatest erogenous zone: my head... and continue to do so, with safety and love and excitement and expectation ... and it has ALL caught my interest and imagination and, uh, well, my libido.

At the risk of sounding like a demanding pet, winding myself around your legs, trying to trip you with my enthusiasm ... I am looking forward to playing more.

Monday, September 14, 2009


She has secrets deep within her. There are shadows, smooth as rich chocolate, sultry as black silk, wicked as a deerskin whip, that slowly swirl within her breast and in the unawakened fissures of her not-so-dormant imagination. These are places she rarely had opportunity to go, rarely had opportunity to delve within unto herself, and almost never had been able to breathe life into with another whom she cares for and is cared by.

This is fragile like a blackbird on the wing. Fragile like the flicker of a freshly lit candle. Fragile like trust caressed with fear and excitment. Discovery. Epiphany. Fecund, feral illumination.

And for the satyr, the psychopomp possessing the privilege to escort a tender faerie such as this into a delicious underworld of unseelie sensation... blissfulness attained. Responsibility. Mentorship. Possession. The making and the shaping of the mythic dimensions to another's sexual self in such a way and manner that can never be forgotten, regardless of whatever else may come. The power possessed is given freely only after the earning of trust and love, and must be wielded with the best interests of the pet in mind for these reasons.

She was kissing me. Her tongue swirled across my lips and into my mouth in the way that is so unique to her, so wanton in its feel. Her tiny waist thrilled my caressing hands as I pulled her closer, tighter against me, my palm at the small of her back. She groaned into my mouth and her lips crushed against mine even firmer than before, snaking an arm around my back. She tasted like wine. She was warm. She nudged a leg between my own, her thigh pressing against my own as I raised my arms to hold her lovely head in both hands.

I tugged her closer still, my fingers gripping gently at the small hairs at the nape of her neck as I returned the kiss. I lifted the shirt over her head, revealing her small breasts for my view and touch. She began undoing my belt as I pulled my own shirt off as well. Pants followed between kisses until we stood in the darkened parlour, aglow with candles and resonant with trance music, during this sensual evening not long after we had just begun to date.

My sense of kink intimidated her. My sexual openness was new for her. The kind of communication I had become accustomed to, and insist on in my relationships, was still something sought for and yet to be found for her. Yet here she was, and yet, things were beginning between us. I liked it, and I saw potential. I think she did too.

And so when our kiss was broken for a moment, I knew I was taxing on the sense of trust I had begun to build when I winked, pecked her on the cheek, and departed briefly to my bedroom as I asked her to "hold that thought."

From my toy chest, I returned to the parlour with my leather ankle restraints and few other naughty items. This evening, I had decided, would be about sensations.

"Do you trust me?" I had pulled a chair from another room and set it in the centre of the parlour. Nude, lithe and beautiful in the golden glow of the room, she took my hand to help her stand upright upon it.


I smiled and kissed her taut abdomen that beckoned before me while slipping the thick, heavy leather restraints around each of her ankles. A metal clamp clikked into place as I secured them together. Looking up and into her slowly widening green eyes, I tugged and yanked on the clamp like a magician demonstrating the effectiveness of his equipment. She kept her balance and I kept my smile.

"Your hands to the ceiling. Do it."

She hesitated, and I punished her with a look. Later, she would tell me that that was when she felt a pang of fear and came close to aborting our little game. But she persevered through it and, much to her surprise, was glad she did.

As am I. I may have never sought to play with her in this way again. For us both, it was a test. We passed.

Fingernails grazed along her ribcage as I walked to stand behind her, taking in the delectable sight of her pert little derriere. A pet should have an excellent derriere, not only capable but prone to enjoying whatever torment I can muster, and her ass is delightful. I caressed a peachy cheek with my palm, squeezing her as she began a faint shudder. I cranked the music up. I sipped some more wine. I smacked her oh-so-available ass that was delightfully presented to my eye-level with a smirk of appreciation. And then I smacked it again. And again, enjoying the slightest movement under my fingers that bespoke of her firmness. I parted her shamelessly, exploring and inspecting her nethermost treasures in a way that surely left her feeling utterly exposed.

I slithered moistened fingers past her thighs and sawed them gently through the swelling folds of her darkening, lovely cunt. She was hot. She was soaked. She gasped aloud.

Holding her hip with one hand, I began a series of spanks with the other until her cheeks just began a shade of pink. I caressed her thighs with rabbit fur. I reached around her to run my nails along her tummy, up to her faerie tits, pinching her nipples. I jilled her lengthening, engorged clit betwen my fingers as she struggled to keep her hands to the cieling above her.

Inspired, and with a sense of indulgent come-uppance, I reached for my most recently-acquired slapper, a token from ribald days and nights in Chicago. I enjoyed an irony. With a self-indulgent smirk I returned the mental gesture that the loss of one becomes the gain of another. It was a subtle, personal return on a theme, fully warranted and enjoyed from the lesser deamons of my nature. And it left lovely, loud red swats on my fabulous, healthy, joyful new lover's exquisite ass.

Both this spirit and the spirit of escorting her through these newer sensations then had me at my kitchen freezer where I reached not for ice, but for clusters of frozen strawberries that had been waiting for attention since last autumn. With fistfulls of the hard, gooey fruits, I laughed aloud as I caressed her legs, abdomen, tits, and face with pink pectin.

By the time I was done, she had been through multiple experiences as she wobbled on happily unsteady feet. It was time to let her cum. Reaching again between her thighs, my fingers returned to exploring her, and at the risk of entirely compromising my Topspace, I indulged in giving her my tongue. She began to quake and suffer, now uncomfortable standing on the chair as orgasm eluded her.

I showed mercy. Wrapping an arm around her waist, I hoisted her up and tossed her into the parlour futon in one rush. She screamed aloud as I roughly parted her thighs and sunk my cock deeply into her drenched, quivering, strawberried pussy, her ankles high and around my neck as I fucked her fast, hard, and deep. I held her legs up by gripping the clamp betwen the restraints, the steel clacking loudly with each demanding thrust of my cock. Her knees framed her face as she gasped aloud. Her nails raked down my back as she came.

I removed the ankle restraints. I carried her to my bed. I threw her down. I raised her lovely, reddened ass into the air to fuck her from behind before we coiled together and drifted into sleep, fruit still on our tongues.

Kara was introduced to kink, and was intimidated no more. She's begun exploring her secrets.

Playing with experienced partners is always a pleasure, but I cannot think of a more rewarding privilege than to succesfully introduce someone to heretofore unexplored nuances of their sexual selves. It transcends the tenure of relationships, and makes priesthood to Aphrodite's temple out of those who have the opportunity to know its joys and responsibilities.

Love you, Kara. Dacquiri?

Friday, September 11, 2009

Where I was.

My parents, like so many others, remembered where they were and what they were doing when they learned that Kennedy had been shot.

I'm a native New Yorker with family members who worked at the World Trade Center. (They were unharmed, but have their stories to tell.)

On this morning, eight years ago, I had just arrived at work. At the time, I was making extra cash as a co-manager at an adult DVD rental outlet in Pickering, Ontario. I had just opened the store and was confirming the latest inventory counts of new DVDs and sextoys when in walked the first client of the day. I had Howard Stern's broadcast on the radio.

When I heard the news, I was carefully trying to explain to this elderly Asian man that, um, no, child porn was not available.

It was the only time, in all of my experiences having worked at various sex-positive outlets in my life, when I was asked such a question.

Friday, September 4, 2009

Tank girl.

For almost ten years, we were together. She was my first love, my first partner, and we met when I was a rascal in my late teens, fresh from high school, spanking new to the bdsm scene, plying my trade as a carnie at Renaissance festivals throughout the northeast coast. She was a mid-20s United States Marine and sometime-stripper who had just finished a tour of duty in Hawaii and had daydreams of flying fighter jets. She had come to the Renaissance festival with her biker friend and her daughter. With an equally rascally buddy, I was doing my job: drinking heavily and teasing the living hell out of "the mundanes."

I was dressed in skintight black Capezios, boots, and a hard, leather jerkin with a lovely blade dangling from my waist. She was ogling me from a short distance, her friend not far behind. I had a belly full of mead and spicy, flirtacious wit, so naturally when I spied her spying me, I approached her as any self-respecting rascal would.

The blade swayed from side to side, its hilt clinking against the vessel of whiskey that dangled from my belt, the outline of my package as easy to see as sinners on a Sunday, as I approached her. Slinking close, she smelled sunshine-warmed sandalwood oil in my light beard as I took in her body language, full of approval, bringing my cheek to her ear.

"Hello, m'lady," I whispered, booze on my breath and faerie dust on my perspiring brow. "Prithee... do you come to the faire to watch the men in their tights?"

She laughed a head-thrown-back, saucy, ribald laugh, the laugh of a tipsy girl from Southie who likes her man to have a nice ass, and nodded. She gave me a "kissing stone," a small rock painted with a tiny, inviting red heart. Within the next hour, she was getting friction burns on her knees as she rode my cock on the upstairs floor of my rustic merchant's booth, amid my camping equipment and collection of medieval costumes.

Not long after we were done, her biker friend had her turn, suffering my carnie friend's pair of leather wrist restraints as he bound her to a rafter and had his way with her in the same room. They never stayed in touch afterward, but what started for my new friend as a sexy, drunken Renfaire fling would become my first longterm, primary relationship.

Had I more courage at the time, I would have married her. I should have. I almost did.

Before Kara, and even before The Grrl who influenced the development of this blog, there was Diva. I keep referring to her in passing, so on the event of her birthday, it seems fitting to share a glimpse.

I so loved Diva.

She's a dirty blonde vixen who has always managed to fuse the allure of whitecollar elegance with bluecollar spirit. One moment, I'd be enjoying watching her sip champagne from Baccarat crystal over braised quail, and the next minute, she'd be belching in the car like a Plymouth longshoreman after a trip to the package store. An occasional stripper (for which she very nearly faced a "conduct unbecoming" charge while on active duty), she wasn't exactly an innocent when we met. Still, in our time together she found herself introduced to a panoply of adverturous play and shared ecstacies that, I smirkingly know, lasted within her well after our relationship ended.

I introduced her to kink. When I wasn't haggling to buy men's wives or children during my hysterically drunken Renfaire taunts ("Oi, m'lord, two pigs fer yer wife thar... my, but she's a purdy one, neh? Lesse her teeth now... oh yeh, yeh, two pigs an' a chicken then, wot say? Tis a good chicken..."), I was working at either an adult toy store in Greenwich Village or bouncing at the clubs, and it wasn't long into our relationship that she discovered exactly how much she loved receiving a good spanking on her beautiful ass.

Diva would squeal so satisfyingly when she was across my lap, and over time, she developed such a tolerance for OTK play that by session's end, her derriere would be fire-engine red and burning throughout the night. She became so enamored of having her hiney whupped that, after we broke up, I was amused to find sex-networking listings from her on various internet sites where she openly sought "the attitude adjustments I so deserve."

She drove from Boston to New York once to surprise me when I was on-duty at a club. She strolled in as I was supervising a scene between two lesbians, and by the end of that night, I had her dangling from the chainlinks suspended from the cieling as I tortured her with horsehair whips and riding crops.

Once, while visiting her, her brother accidentally walked in on us as she lay sprawled on the living room floor as I hovered above her, slowly dripping hot wax onto her pretty B-cup breasts. Oops.

At another club, after spanking, paddling, and restraining her on a St. Andrew's cross as I pinched her nipples with clamps, I took her into a blacklit booth where I pressed her hands against the wall and fucked her from behind. As I drove deeply into her, tugging her adorable ass against me hard and fast, masturbating voyeurs moaned and stroked both their cocks and pussies as they jockeyed in position for the finest view. When we were finished, Diva told me later about the streams of anonymous semen that found itself splashing along her leg while I pumped her senseless.

We had friends among T-Bears MC, a kink-positive women's motorcycle club, and with them we became part of the clique that founded the Boston chapter of the National Leather Association. It was Diva who, during a relaxed party at our pad, came up with the name for its newsletter, Scarlet Leather, which it retained long after the group redeveloped into the New England Leather Alliance.

We were social butterflies (or wasps, if you prefer) then, movers 'n shakers, the Kind Of People You Wanted To Know. I did workshops at NLA meetings about riding crop use as sex toys; Diva dropped trou to help me demonstrate. I drove our black Ford conversion van as we trekked to another private playparty; Diva knelt on the van floor as our brunette BBW friend, Jacqueline, opened her legs to receive Diva's expert tongue.

And her tongue was deliciously expert. Diva was superb at sucking cock, and knew all about that balance between a firm, wet grip of the fist while also offering a tight, sucking, pouty pair of lips. We would embrace for vast stretches of time, orally spooning as we lay on the bed on our sides, her head at my waist and my hands at her head as I vigourously pumped my cock into her willing, wanton mouth.

She would crawl on all fours, clad only in a teddy, onto the center of the Oriental rug in the playparty host's parlour. There, in the center of a circle of chairs occupied by voyeurs, men and women alike, she would bend her head to the floor and raise her lovely ass high to receive whatever spanking, paddling, cropping, waxing, icing, clamping torment my naughty imagination could muster. How she loved being tormented upon her ass.

Diva's ass. Diva loved to have my cock, deep and thrusting as she perspired under me, inside her ass. How she would hiss and growl as she felt herself get taken, how she would gasp and loudly whisper "Hot! So hot! So... hot!" as my fiercely pumping thrusts burst my cum deep into her body.

Three times I shared her with other individual men, where she was
each time until she gasped and rolled her eyes back and dropped limp with ecstatic oblivion. One man was a celebrity, of sorts, whom we knew. Another was a bodypainting artist we met at the Renfaire. The last was a mutual friend who was about to wed a woman who detested anal sex, and we gave him something to remember.

At least one orgy, four couples. More playparties. The couple who rented a 1-bedroom apartment just for their swinging trysts. The couple who wanted to simply see a demonstration of my Topping skills as the sound of Gregorian chant echoed throughout their basement dungeon. The teen couple, both redheads, also from the faire. Picking her up after a shift at the stripclub. The afternoon I fucked her on a hillside in the snow as friends nearby sought for us. The night beside the lake as I took her from behind, knees on grass, as a crowd of nude, ribald men and women danced naked around the bonfire to the thrumming of drums and song, our visage barely visible by the glow of embers under a starry sky.

I have written a great deal about my lovers in this blog, but after some thought, nothing I have written to date can come close to the quantity, the quality, of adventurous sexplay that she and I had explored during our tenure together. I've had lusty, imaginative daydreams about exploring nearly as much, being nearly as active in the kink community again, with a partner as I had enjoyed when Diva and me were the Thing we were.

But, yes, it ended. Maybe it was the 7-Year Itch, or maybe the planets simply went kerblewie out of alignment, or maybe it was just time, but we eventually drifted apart. I moved out on Christmas Day. The ripple effect among our circle of friends was vast. I pierced my right lobe (the left ear had been done when I was sixteen) to mark the monumental change in my world.

I would never have admitted it then, but losing Diva was one of the best things to ever have happened to me. For all my sexual exploration and streetwise education, I was a kid then who didn't really know shit about women, relationships, communication, the vulnerability that comes with love. Diva, in her own way, taught me those things, as she taught me certain life-affirming maxims that are tattooed to my forearms. She showed me how to appreciate women who have cajones.

After our breakup, she raced motorcycles for a time and travelled to Europe. Her landscaping business flailed in the recent recession, and she's since moving on to become a corrections officer. It's a career choice that I think she'll do fine in.

Oddly, she's single. Her last boyfriend strung her along for the longest time, never getting the message that all she really wants is a steady, committed partner with whom she can build and share. Maybe her attitude gets in her way, because she's as openmouthed as she is openminded.

We didn't talk for the longest time, but we're friends now, and call on rare occasion. Her mid20s daughter, whom I raised with her during our relationship, calls me Daddy to this day and had her second child by her good husband, a Coast Guard seaman, within the last few years.

I loved Diva very much, and I still do, in a fashion. She's clan. From time to time, like on her birthday today, I think about her and send her good vibes.

Happy birthday, beautiful.

I still have the kissing stone.