A feast for the senses.

Young Kinkster, aka Lolita, writes to ask:

"I have a question that needs your attention. My recently-acquired boytoy seems unwilling to, as we said in high school in the 'hood, go down. Specifically on me.

"I've taken a lot of sections of his cherry but this one frustrates me to no end. How do I go about persuading some almost-virgin to do this for me?"


Short answer: You can't.

Probably.

Well, maybe. It depends.

Read the long answer.

But first, have you tried tossing him into a crowd of drunken sorority sisters yet?

I'm going to begin with some comments about pussy, capitalism, and raising sexually informed men. Come walk with me.

One of the reasons that I am a strong believer in early sex education is because, in my view, it's the only way to undermine what mass market corporate advertisers impose on us from the moment we come screaming from the womb. Take the current trend toward bald (i.e, visually sterilized) pussy as an example.

Perhaps because of (mass market corporate) porn and its post-90s influence on pop culture, fashion, and advertising, throngs (thongs?) of women (and including, in some cases, children) have been starry-eyed foo-foo convinced that Brazilian waxjobs are de rigeur. It's the new conformity in marketed body modification. Consequently, hordes (hoards?) of men now may fully expect that the only "worthwhile" pussy is the seemingly pre-pubescent, bald, shaven one. This marketing concept has become so conceptualized into socio-sexual hegemony that I figure that the pressure on other (read: unoppressed?), furrier women feel must be huge. Big as a Victoria's Secret billboard.

Both feminist and queer theory have shown us how politically powerful bodies and sexualities are, and that's because of how fundamental it is to our personhood and identity. Genital modification is, and has been, used in cultures throughout the world as a means of social control for the same reason. How much difference is there then, for example, between young girls in Arabic cultures who are forced to undergo circumcision as a means of social control, and those women who "voluntarily" undergo cosmetic labiaplasty? Are they not arguably submitting themselves to the same end result? And for what? Because pussies terrify and deserve to be domesticated? Ok, YK, these examples are peripheral and extreme to your question, but don't they suggest that with so much control and unnecessary confusion imposed on women's (and men's, surely) genitals, is it any wonder that they remain such mysteries to most people?

In other words, sexual anthropology jargon aside, most men simply aren't appreciatively, reverently, respectfully exposed to a celebration of women's bodies... and as a result, are usually either terribly uninformed (at best) or are subliminally scared of pussy. There's a reason why the ancient Celts used sacred vaginal sculpture as a warning sign, not an enticement.

How could we break young men (and women, surely) away from that ignorance in their adolescence? Take the kids to a nudist resort. Please. Make some hot cocoa and sit down with them at the computer to explore the virtual Vulva Museum. Visit England and check out the sculptors at Brighton Body Casting, who have embarked on an extraordinary art project that will dash any notions or expectations about what women are "supposed" to be.

I know an excellent young man who developed a reputation as a superb, considerate, hot lover. He was raised in a polyamourous household in California, and in his late teens was introduced to the ideas of romantic sex-as-pleasure by various articulate and caring women. They taught him by discussing their experiences and what they expected from men. They used what could be described as softcore porn. They taught him that sex wasn't exclusively about procreation, but also about communication, and they taught him the basics of how not to fuck it up.

There are those in the world who might jump to the conclusion that this is tantamount to borderline sexual abuse, if for no other reason than his age at the time. Yet, he's been exposed to loving, caring, body-positive people who wanted him to grow to be a good man for his partner. Elsewhere, more sexually conservative, "legitimate" families do produce men who are abusive, controlling, selfish, socio-sexually inept, or fail to respect and value the women they profess to love.

Why am I writing this? What does this have to do with your boytoy not flicking your bean? Because when I was an older boy/young man/adolescent punk, pussy was as much an almost total, absolute mystery to me as it probably is for your playmate and most other men. Hell, it's only been within the last five years that I learned that the clitoris doesn't consist of the nubbin, hood, and shaft alone, but that its nerves and musculature are part of an entire wishbone-shaped mass that ensconces under and around the entire labia like an inverted horseshoe. Cool! Damn, I love it when there's something else to learn.

(Raise your hand if you knew that already. ...I'm counting about a tenth of you.)

So, to your question, dahlingk. I tend to shy away from seeking to "convince" a partner to do anything. My attitude is that if s/he doesn't already have a desire for something, the most you can hope for is to expose him/her to what it is you're into and make an effort at nurturing a new interest where none may have been before. You may find that he's simply not into it, and this might forever remain a sexual incompatibility between you. Whether or not that's a dealbreaker is up to you.

The Tomboy doesn't particularly like to suck cock. It disappoints me, but I'm mature enough to deal with it and choose to not let it bother me as long as I'm just her occasional lover. But if she were my primary partner (and especially if we were going to be monogamous), it'd be a Problem.

Yet, in a way, Cherry Boy's inexperience can also be to your advantage! If he's game, it might even provide you with a rare treat.

He's so new to his sexuality that everything is a fresh slice of pie. Apart from whatever it was he was stroking his cock to before he met you, all topics, nuances, and experiences remain fair game. Uncharted territory! If you have the patience, that might be fucking hot for you. You have become his sexual initiator, and as long as you're aware that almost every move you make will leave a longlasting impression on another human being's sexual consciousness and confidence, you could be in for a riproaring time. But it's a big responsibility.

I lost my virginity at 17. A late starter by some standards, but I more than made up for it by doing on-stage bondage performances within the next two years. Me, once the opportunity presented itself, I was eager to give my partner head and went at it with gusto. In retrospect, I wasn't particularly good at it then (too fast, too much pressure, not enough handplay, clueless about body language), but what's a kid supposed to know?

But it sounds like Cherry Boy lacks even the zeal. Assuming that he's at least been jacking off to images of women before you came along to offer him your delicious, flesh and blood self, then there's a reason.

He may simply be that selfish. So many young dudes are so focused on their own exclusive pleasure that it's become a stereotype. If Cherry Boy's among those ranks, I'd suggest that it's time to update your dating site profile.

He may be very shy. If he's otherwise trying to be a good lover, then he might not have the confidence to give it a go. I'm less inclined to believe this, but it's possible.

If it isn't selfishness, and if it isn't shyness, then (for him) something is standing in the way between his mouth and your body.

(I'm about to tread on some very sensitive territory. Caveat: as a man, I feel wholly unqualified to intelligently remark on the functioning of women's bodies or sexual health, and God knows guys have been doing that for centuries. What follows is strictly from my own experience and how I think I can best articulate it. We're all adults here.)



For the uninitiated young buck, bringing one's face and mouth and tongue to his lover's pussy can be a world-class adventure. Even young, experimenting proto-lesbians would, I'd think, have some clues as they share the same anatomy, but young lads feeling thighs on their shoulders for the first time have almost no idea whatsoever of what to expect and how "she" will respond. Pussies are complex, beautifully feral creatures that, for the mortally clueless, take a little getting used to. There's a full and rich orchestra happening there with diverse colours, scents, fluids, shapes, nuances, textures, zones, personalities and all of which capable of shifting its needs, demands, and sensitivities at a moment's notice.

When he places his face to you, it's your scent, wetness, and texture that's going to greet him first. You already know that. Like many women, maybe you've had some anxiety about that because, let's face it, sometimes men behave like insensitive morons.

For his book Coming Of Age In New Jersey, sexual anthropologist Michael Moffat "went undercover" and lived among coeds in the Rutgers University dorms to study sexuality among college students.

"Oral sex did not touch off alarm bells of guilt in either females or males as often as did "going all the way," he writes. "(Oral sex) dilemmas were more often that of hygiene. Men and women worried about learning how to do it and about whether or not their partner enjoyed doing it to them. Men complained occasionally about vaginal cleanliness."

Now, I know you're an intelligent, healthy person who knows how to take care of her body. I also know that if you did have some obstetric concerns and its possible relationships to your sexual wellbeing, you surely wouldn't be asking a man who writes a damned sexblog.

But consider this: what you know is a wonderfully healthy, happy pussy may not be what he thinks is a healthy, happy pussy. Brie takes a little getting used to when all your palate knows is cheddar.

A big part of his (current?) aversion probably is about your body being so foreign to him. He may be a little overwhelmed by all those new scents, juices, and textures. He's so new to sex in general that, despite what he thinks now, he really hasn't too much of an idea of what he's into, and not everything that he'll be into later will be something he'll crave right away. Some things take time, and for many lovers, enjoying oral can be an acquired thing.

Only once in my (younger) life did I make the mistake of suggesting to a partner that perhaps her cleanliness was an issue. I know now that it wasn't, that the cunnilingus experience I was receiving was perfectly natural and normal... but, like so many other guys, I never expected that the perspective problem was with me rather than a body issue with her. The partner in question was terribly embarassed and took to vaginal vinegar douching, which many now know isn't completely advisable. I wasn't rude or crude in my approach, but once I learned more, it became an important lesson for me. Embarassing a lover is no fun.

It took a little time, and a few lovers, before it really became clear to me how extraordinarily different bodies can be and that scent, taste, texture were as equally varied woman to woman, diet to diet, happenstance to happenstance. Eventually, learning the subtle nuances in scent, taste, texture a new partner's body might possess became part of the reason I'd be eager to feast on her. And the first time I'm with a lover, I'm always going to feast on her. Count on it. But it took time and paying attention before I got there.

So let's assume that it's his unfamiliarity with your yummyness that has him holding yellow flags. Because, let's face it, he's clueless. You ask how you can "persuade" him. I suggest that you try some playful games.

If you enjoy foodplay, you probably already know that whipped cream is the signature oral enhancement. Warm fruit nectar, maple syrup, canned cherry pie filling (poetic justice!), honey, crushed fresh berries, cream... anything that's wet and messy that makes it to his face can help him bridge the foreign sensation of stickiness while also blending with the (natural, healthy) scents and fluids that he's still learning about. Slice papayas and mangoes and smear them on one another. Use plastic bottles of chocolate sauce like water cannons. Enjoy the post-gooey-fuck shower together.

Roleplay some power exchange scenes like "Private Tutor." You're the professional sexual surrogate contracted by his wealthy guardian to teach him the "arts of pleasing a woman." His massive inheritance is completely dependent on your assessment of his ability to follow instructions. He does exactly and expressly what you tell him to do. Or "Cleopatra's Slave," where his very life depends on his ability to please the sovereign Pharoah queen as he kneels, head back in submission, waiting to be ridden. "Stick out that tongue or my guards will yank it out with pliers, you loathsome Greek!"

And when he's ready, get naked and read Violet Blue's Ultimate Guide To Cunnilingus or Ian Kerner's She Comes First in bed together. Make some popcorn and check out Nina Hartley's Guide To Better Cunnilingus DVD.

But sooner or later, if he has any hope of being a good and appreciated lover, he's going to have to wake up to the fact that pussies have fluids and scents and expressive diversity. If he's having a boundary with a perfectly healthy, natural, happy, properly enticed quim, dude is going to be awfully lonely. And doesn't he know that getting a rep for giving good head can only work for him?

As an added bonus, I polled some joyfully moistened blog readers (hi guys!) to share their thoughts about your plight. (See what perks there are when you become my Facebook friend?)

"How might you respond if your lover refused to go down on you?"

The Fearless Consultant was straightfoward: "That would be a no-can-do moment. I'd find out why, and if it were a pattern, it'd be see ya!"

"I think it's a deal breaker," replied Alise from the French spanking bench. (J'ai manqué voir vous là.)

"Not only is it selfish behaviour," she rightfully tells us, "but it would make me question his feelings towards the female body and women in general. If a guy wants his dick sucked (and which one doesn't) and thinks that should be his gods-given right but dislikes going down on a woman, then maybe he should consider trying a bloke so he won't have to worry about there being any vaginas in the equation. Even knowing the guy doesn't particularly like doing it and does it under sufferance is a deal breaker for me.

Sextoy Hostess was more patient, but to a limit. "As long as it isnt a regular occurence, I wouldnt worry. Sometimes I want what I want and I would imagine that he's the same, or we just want to get right to penetration and a quickie is just right. But, if it's regularly one-sided, I don't think that's fair. It's selfish and I probably would begin to feel cheated out of the enjoyment. I'd probably discuss it with him to find out why he isn't going down any longer. If he continued to NOT, I would take ORAL pleasure away from him as well. If that didn't change his mind I'd probably ask him (sarcastically) if he minded that I invite a girlfriend over while he's at work to replace what he's not giving me."

Poet and visual artist Shane Girl (no, not that one) would also have limited patience. "Depends on why he refused and if it's something he's done before with me. There really shouldn't be a refusal. No WAY! Otherwise, I'd need to figure out if this was his first time kissing below the belt and may give him a coaching lesson. He might love it! But if it's not his first time, then I'd need to know what the hell is wrong. The cootie is clean, free of germs and diseases, so why not? It amazes me when men want their knobs polished but don't want to return the favor, or if they're over-sensitive about doing something they know will drive a woman CRAZY!

"If he played his cards right, he'll know that's one of the ways to grab a woman's attention, providing he executes the tongue just right. There is a technique. Otherwise, it's not a two way street but a one way dead end, and then he's outta there."

And Boots, who tells me that she sweetens herself before an evening's feasting with milk and honey baths, reminds us exactly what it is that Cherry Boy is missing. If I could, I would pat her man on the back. Maybe he and I should take this kid behind the shed and learn him up some.

"I am concerned for your reader, the poor thing. My heart (well, my heart and elsewhere) go out to her.

"Having been beautifully and thoroughly attended to, year after year, with regular worship by my good husband's mouth, I cannot begin to imagine this girl's plight. When I think on the lovers that have come and gone, I cannot recall a man who didn't, at the very least, aim to please with his tongue and intentions, even though a fair few would do well to stick to receiving rather than giving.

"My man loves to pleasure me. And, oh my, he pleasures me well. His passion for tastings and tongue-fuckings is truly a thing of wonder and delight, and therein lies the key for giving good head methinks... That your man is unquestioningly enjoying himself whilst nose-deep within your wetness, to feel a man moan whilst his tongue explores your depth, or while he sucks and gnaws upon your eager clit... mmmm... to hear and feel and know that your lover is relishing in your scent, your texture, your wetness and your waves of pleasure is such a delight to the senses. He grows hot and swollen with lust 'tween my glistening thighs, not limiting himself to location nor limb, and it pleases me to see him so hard in his enjoyment as he worships my wellspring.

"After twelve years of his mouth on my cunt, he still brings me to that place of leg-shaking, panting, squirting exquisiteness. He teases with a mix of lip, tongue and finger, making my hips rise in anticipation and longing. A finger slowly circles my folds whilst teeth nibble at my turgid clit, and a tongue licks the length of my seam then pauses at my arse. A finger slides in there whilst another circles the button elsewhere, and he's eating me, hungrily. The stubble on his face is dripping with me, and he loves it. His tongue is at its length as he laps me up, his hot breath upon and within me, and I cum in his mouth. Hard.

"The wave washes over my body, and he inserts another finger into my tight arse, and moves his mouth to my clit to suckle while his other hand delves deep into my cunt, and my orgasm is kicked back up to the full height of eye-roll-back-pleasure.

"I do hope her man finds his manners, as poor head is surely poor etiquette."

Eager to enroll.

Delightful.

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.

Le Salon de Punition avec Alise et Vivienne: une fantaisie.

A slow and gentle snow whisked against the panes as I awaited you.

Beaumonde, long my family's manservant, had seen to it that the crystal was filled with one of the estate's finer vintages, that the fire was suitably roaring, the bedding properly turned, the glass oil lanterns suitably filled. I smiled as I stood at the window, observing the chestnut mares weave your carriage through the snowy and dormant garden. It had taken more than a little intrigue to arrange for this night.

"The evening's pets have arrived, Beaumonde," I purred over my shoulder. "Do straighten my waistcoat and then attend to them." He nodded, only the barest amount of powder from his wig sifting into the air as he did so. Having first refilled me, I savoured the wine on my lips as he departed with a quiet bow.

I heard the door in the foyer open, and tried to decide whose giggle it was I heard. You both had been to my home before, but never before together, and while your own family estates were leagues apart from one another, I knew that our common interest would make for a most neighbourly, if scandalous, evening.

I listened to your approach up the stairs, my back to the door as Beaumonde opened it. I continued enjoying the sight of the soft snow, the smile on my face likely reflected on the glass. All of our eyes met through our reflections upon the glistening pane when my manservant opened the parlour. Our eyes laughed together, only your shoes creaking the wooden floor and the crackling fire filling our ears.

"The ladies madame Alise and mademoiselle Vivienne, sir."

I turned, my smile unflinching. "Thank you, Beaumonde. The wine, if you please, and then you may retire to the ballroom unless and until summoned for."

"Sir," he repeated, and served you wine from the silver platter that the king himself had bestowed upon my uncle so many years before. Bowing first to me and then, perhaps for a moment too long, before each of you, he closed the door behind him and finally, we were alone together. No more pretenses, no more deceits in Paris, no unchaste smiles reserved from public view by the flurring of a fan or lace kerchief. The three of us alone in the parlour, far from the capital. At last.

My bow felt deliciously tawdry, an elegant ritual that almost contrasted with the purpose of our fair salon. Your returning curtsies seemed equally naughty, like a flash of ankle under a virgin's pannier. The fire glistened upon the buckles of my shoes as I stepped forward, taking each of your hands for a tender kiss. Your faces were clearly flushed already.

"Candide, then?" I asked you, Alise. "You expressed such admiration for Voltaire, and I'm afraid even saucier works are difficult to come by in Marseilles. I suspect his adventures, and Miss Cunegund's torments, shall keep us aptly entertained... whilst the mademoiselle bares herself from her lovely petticoats."

From deep downstairs, the quiet echo of the harpsichord daintily filled the house as Beaumonde began playing a Spanish sonata. Soler, whose compositions were deemed plebian by the less than sensual, enriched my sense of bawdiness for the evening. Beaumonde played him rythmically.

Our affair unfolded charmingly, the two of you elegant ladies and me. With superb wine and cordial conversation, we discussed the affairs of the day, matters of art and state, religion and poetry, and all the while catching knowing and flirtacious glances to one another. Madame Alise, you looked resplendent in your silken corsetry of emerald hue, your luxurious golden locks cascading upon your bare shoulders like mythic fleece from a Mediterannean island. And you, naughty Vivienne, your dark curls tried vainly to hide your blushing face as your beating heart thundered under your peach chemise. Even Alise indulged in the occasional leer toward you, and I myself enjoyed watching the licking of her painted lips when she would discretely glance upon your heaving bosom, dear Vivienne.

And then the churchtower struck ten and all fell silent and ominous between us.

Beaumond's playing continued unabated, gentle and ethereal, elsewhere in the house, but the echoing chimes resounded through the icy trees and windswept fields outside. The agreed hour had come, and the three of us knew perfectly well what would follow, as arranged from the many secret notes we had shared over the weeks before. I stood, reached for the bookcase, and handed you, Alise, the volume bound in soft, red deerskin. Your smile was scandalous.

"But first, monsieur, the basket, oui?" you asked. I nodded with a grin. Poor Vivienne only sat still, her breath quickening. Her eyes blinked in anticipation.

You stood and located the wicker chest on the floor beside the fire. From inside, you withdrew the thick, burgundy Oriental ropes, soft and heavy velvet, tassled with small bells of ivory and silver, and stood with them before tender Vivienne. She raised herself, and you assisted her in the gentle removal of her bodices and skirts, revealing her intimate chemise. She blushed all the more, and knowing the game, you then bound her wrists with the ropes fashioned by hands from mysterious China. I sat on the chaise beside the window, where I have always sat for the torment of my pets.

You gently eased tender Vivienne across my lap. Her hands dangled to the floor, bound at the wrists. Once placed, you bound her ankles as well, assuring that her balance was so slightly off.

"Please read, darling Alise," I softly spoke to you, my hands resting on Vivienne's back. You smiled, sipped the wine, sat near the fire, eased the volume open, and began.

"The baron was one of the most powerful lords in Westphalia, for his castle had not only a gate, but even windows, and his great hall was hung with tapestry. He used to hunt with his mastiffs and spaniels instead of greyhounds, and his groom served him for huntsman..."

I pet your hair, sweet Vivienne, my attentions to you as you lay upon my legs. Your curls sifted across the rings on my fingers as my free hand gently caressed your exposed ankles. That hand soon began slowly drawing your hem upward, your milky calves revealed, the rear of your knees, those magnificently tender thighs graced to you by Our Lord God, and finally...

"My lady baroness was a person of no small consideration, and then she did the honors of the house with a dignity that commanded universal respect. Her daughter was about seventeen years of age, fresh colored, comely, plump, and desirable..."

"Oh, Vivienne," I softly whispered. "How blessed by heaven you are. Such a derriere deserves painful and yearning praise by cloisters of frustrated monks from all over fair France."

The winter wind whisked more ice and snow upon the leaded windowpanes as I raised my hand and administered the first strike of the evening. The seam of your saucily exposed round bottom was met with four firm fingers and a flattened palm, the sharp crispness of its smack only matched by the snapping wet logs in the fire. You shook, cried out, and were still. Alise paused, perhaps to look up from her vellum pages before returning to read aloud. I am certain that I witnessed a grin.

"The baron’s son seemed to be a youth in every respect worthy of the father he sprung from. Candide thought Miss Cunegund excessively handsome, though he never had the courage to tell her so..."

Caressing your tender skin, shameful Vivienne, brought such swelling under my breeches. How I adore the feel of the breach between your budding cheeks. Whilst my striking palm continued to rain tender torment upon you, I became doubtless that my pike could be felt stabbing upward to your covered navel. Was it the fire that brought droplets to my brow? Had I too much wine already? Between strikes, both fierce and fluttering, your warm and curvaceous bottom became my north star, guiding me toward pleasures deep withn my breast as I exposed and explored you in a fashion only known to the rudest of Versailles ladies.

"As Miss Cunegund had a great disposition for the sciences, she observed with the utmost attention to her experiments. Quite pensive and filled with the desire of knowledge, she imagined she might be a sufficing reason for young Candide, and he for her. When she happened to meet the young man, she blushed, and he blushed also. She wished him a good morning in a flattering tone..."

I smiled to beautiful Alise as she read on, and enjoyed the sparkle in her seductive eyes as she shared my visual pleasure in your lovely arse, Vivienne. I smirked as I listened to her alluring throat dry itself in the warmth of the room, and for witnessing our activities, and paused to taste my wine when she did the same to aid her voice. But you, raven-haired vixen, not so virtuous Vivienne, you hung unsteadily tense and firm across my knees as you awaited my next blow. When it came, fast and harsher than before, raining haughty evil upon your mother's baby's skin, you could not help yourself but raise your head high in your exquisite distress to look straight into Madame Alise's conspiratorial face as you screamed aloud. You continued to cry out as my hand became a savage blur, your head shaking from one side to another as I held you tightly. Your whimpering, sniffling screams, your pants and sudden gasps for merciful air, your tearful pleas resounded throughout my parlour to little avail. There was even the briefest pause from the far ballroom as Beaumonde likely heard you as well.

"The next day, as they were rising from dinner, Cunegund and Candide slipped behind the screen. The miss dropped her handkerchief, the young man picked it up. She innocently took hold of his hand, and he as innocently kissed hers with a warmth, a sensibility, a grace, and their lips met. Their eyes sparkled. Their knees trembled. Their hands strayed..."

I caught my breath as I paused. I wiped my brow with a kerchief. I slowly caressed your burning seam. Your flesh is aflame with loving punishment.

In an act of the utmost rudeness and manly daring, an act which would scandalize the lot of your entire family history were it to become known in the streets, I then teased your nethermost flower, obedient Vivienne, your petals, and from which withdrew a lustful fingertip of Venus' own nectar from your most secret of jewels. Lifting the offending finger to my gaze, I admired the gloss upon my flesh with lamplight. With a gentle moan from deep within me, I then committed the most profane act of indulgence to paint the very underside of your tender chin with this, your own elixir. Can you not feel how your torment entices you to sin? Can you not love the incubus who escorts you into your desired perdition? Your womanhood is as a moonlit field on a warm early May morning, though your dew is not the fruit of kisses or love notes or poems from unrequited farmboys, but from the firmness of my punishing hand feeling, striking, opening, taunting, probing, and using your ladyship's exquisite and beautiful derriere for my own pestilent pleasure.

With a soft caress, I eased the discomfort upon your fiery flesh, for by now your skin glowed like the smouldering coals beside Alise. I eased you to the floor as she lowered the book to her lap, and the three of us smiled to one another in a tender silence. You raised your wrists to me with a pleading look in your eyes, and I undid the magnificent Peking bonds. I permitted you to withdraw the ropes from your ankles by yourself, and you seemed to enjoy this moment of return to your more courtly, more respectable sense of presence. Offering you my hand, we stood together, and only then did we share a kiss.

Alise waited, enjoying the lovliness. I motioned my eyes toward her, and as I sipped the wine from the crystalware, you carried the ropes back to her. Even in your crumpled chemise, smarting with the sting of my love, you were as regal as any lady of His Majesty's court.

But you too knew the next step in our salon, in our game. As if on cue, your eyes met with Alise's just as the churchtower in the village began to strike the eleventh hour. With a smirk upon your face and a flutter of your dark eyes, you held the burgundy ropes before our panting reader of Voltaire.

"Madame Alise," you whispered as you reached for her wrist. "Monsieur believes it is now my turn to be reading aloud."



© 2009. All rights to text reserved. Portions quoted from Voltaire's Candide, public domain.

Real men make quiche.

Late last night, she texts me while I'm sound asleep. What a perfect message to awaken to. I go about my morning, and some time when I figure she's about to awaken and start her day, I text her back.

Shayne: My love, I want to suck your cock.

Me: *snuggles up close* Not lettinya go ta work taday. Yer shtayin in bed wif me.

Shayne: Oop... ok. :)

Me: That blowjob last night was *amazing* baby, and just what I needed... ...but now its your turn...

Shayne: I feel ravenous this morning.

Me: I made quiche for you. It didn't threaten my manhood.

Shayne: Chocolate quiche? I went out last night and met a really sweet group of queers and had a good time. I was charming.

Me: Quiche lorraine. More breakfasty. But there's a chocolate/pear clafouti with melon slices in the fridge.

Shayne: Lots of talk in their group of moving to your city. Mmm... the crust is divine. And youre SO cute in an apron.

Me: So your date with Malie tanked?

Shayne: Mm. You are so good! No, it was during my date with Amelie.

Me: Especially when Im nekkid under the apron. I think you should consider their advice. *munch* I thlike da hammy bith.

Shayne: Whose advice?

Me: The advice of the cool dykes who like my city. Is there more coffee?

Shayne: Yes, I'll get it. They weren't all dykes, you girl crazy man.

Me: Oh, Im sure. But, yes, I am girlcrazy. Especially if that girl is you. Good coffee, thanks.

Shayne: Nice save, Mr. Man. Now can i have that return favor you mentioned when we woke up?

Me: *smiles, drains pottery mug, dabs lips with linen serviette, and slowly slinks to kneel on the kitchen floor* *gently parts your legs as you enjoy breakfast*

Shayne: *pats head* You're so good, honey. *kisses cheeks* *purrs* *lays back and sighs*

Me: Mm. Look at this... arent you pretty. *winks* *smiles* *moves closer to your chair, caresses your calves, leans forward* Mmm. Do you like it when I give you a long, slow, gentle swab with my tongue that way? ...I think you do.

Shayne: I love it. I love how you enjoy me so much. I love your slow, deliberate movements.

Cupcake does the shimmytittyjiggle.

The coffee hasn't quite made it to my brain as I struggle through the early part of my day. Leave it to Shayne to give me reason to widen my eyes and send a surge of adrenaline through me.

I had just sent her a textmessage saying a simple, loving hello. My cellphone responds with that telltake chirp that alerts me to an incoming picture message, and there before me is the delicious image of her lovely, pendulous breasts framed between her forearms.

Shayne: Hi! A belated HNT from the girls and me! :*

My eyes pop open and my belly laugh startles those around me.



Me: *boink!* Woop! Hi girls!! :)

Shayne: *shimmy titty jiggle* in unison singsong: Hi-eee!

Me: *slips a 20 in your gstring*

Shayne: Oh! Hey there sexy man. How come i haven't seen you here before? Wanna dance?

Me: My first time here, lovely lady. In town over the weekend on business, staying at the King Eddie. Youre really quite the dancer... is there a VIP room? What's your name?

Shayne: Oh i like a man who doesn't waste time. My name is Cupcake. *takes your hand and pulls you from the chair* You can imagine what THAT did to me in middle school.

Me: *led by you* Seems like its you who's eager, Cupcake - not that I mind. That skirt from your middle school days too? What are you drinking, sexy?

Shayne: A man on business? Hm. You have much more appeal to me than the usual business set. I like your beard.

Me: And I like the way you move...

Shayne: Bourbon on the rocks, why thank you. Here, get comfortable on this sofa. Ready for your dance? *lowers self to a squat, looking deeply into your eyes* :) Listen. I can dance for you all night, but that's only gonna take you so far. If you have the time, stick around til my shift's over and i'll get you to put that beard against my inner thighs back at your hotel.

Me: My, Cupcake... you really *are* eager, aren't you? ...It's the tie, isn't it? Damn, I'm glad I wore my power tie today...

The Three Graces.

I shook the rain from my trenchcoat as I handed it to the girl. The thrum of the tunes, the cold beer bottle in my fist, the flogger and c-clamp in my back pocket, the plain strap of black leather snapped across my left wrist... all these things brought me back to the nights when I bounced the bdsm clubs of New York City. I was in the Funhaus and it was time for another Fetish Masquerade.

The play for the night would largely be confined to the back room, the rear door to which yawned open like a hellmouth, shades of red lighting beckoning the daring and the kinky from the open dance area. The music was better here than what Master Micheal would have played, this place being a danceclub first and catering to a fusion between the goth crowd and a smattering of trendy poseurs.

I was stag tonight. I don't usually enjoy going to fetish nights on my own, since it usually reminds me that single men often make up the vast majority of voyeuristic attendees. Not quite so here, however, with the house full of couples and clusters of friends. Me, I'm much more comfortable being part of a pair, or more, of players out together, especially if I'm with a hot partner. I enjoy being out and playing, doing my thing, more than just being the observer, but tonight I was determined to have some fun. I'm confident that the time will come when my hand will meet flesh under the red lights again; for now, being in the energy was satisfying enough.

The night was still young when the Sultan, a Middle Eastern fellow in elegant Bedouin regalia, began preparing one of the red leather spanking benches for a session. I'd seen him before, and knew that he'd be using that spanking bench all night. His partner was a smiling, curvy, longhaired blond in a rust-coloured PVC top with boyshorts. Blondie relaxed comfortably as she climbed on to the padded bench with a naughty grin, resting her albows on an upper tier while facing the wall. Her round ass was revealed as Sultan tugged her boyshorts down, leaving her clad in a g-string as she was displayed before the growing audience behind her.

It's a treat when a couple is comfortable enough to let the night start early. Sultan, a regular at this event, began with tender smacks and caresses. Gradually, he built up toward a firmer hand, which Blondie readily accepted with gyrating hips. She arched her back slightly, turning her pleasantly generous bum upward and parting her cheeks open ever so more as she did so. By the time Sultan was slowly using his pinwheel along her thigh, she was squirming so much that she couldn't help but reveal her plump seam and darkened anus to the bright red light above her. The poor dear.

In the main room, vintage 70s porn played on the big screen as the now full house thudded with PVC-, leather-, and lingerie-clad dancers. Couples and singles, a crossdresser or two, and bouncers occasionally made their way in and out of the back room. Some lounged on nearby overstuffed couches, others sat or stood to watch the Sultan and Blondie at play.

As I was enjoying the sight of Blondie's reddened ass, something suddenly burst into the back room and trampled under and in front of me. Scampering on the floor at high speed was a young man bearing a small collar, and following him was a bespeckled blonde with a radiant smile and a shining black PVC evening dress. Instead of being an intrusion, their energy was infectious.

"C'mere, boy!" she called out with a wide and friendly smile. Immediately the young man turned on all fours, smiled back, and scampered on hands and knees toward her and right next to me. Tossing a huge, knotted rope, he watched it soar to the other end of the room, then brought it back with it gleefully in his teeth. She laughed and scolded him gently when he refused to release his grip on the rope toy. They did this again and again and were having a great time. It was nice to be reminded that Topping doesn't always have to be ominous and fierce.

I had forgotten how fun it was to see pup play. Sultan and Blondie continued unabated, but now my area of the room was also rich with fun, plain and simple, just because these two were so clearly having it. She saw my wide smile.

"Would you like to pet him?" she asked me, beaming. "His name is Rave."

I immediately went into doggie-voice. "Hello, Raaave... aw, such a good boy, what a good boy you are, yes, yes you are," I said, scratching him behind his ears, petting and gently tapping his back. He scampered away when I stopped. Not long after, I enjoyed watching Rave, his handler, and a lithe woman who was a tender kitten, scampering with Rave and making little hissy paws. They were cute.

Others came into the rear dungeon. Soon, as Sultan and Blondie were joined by another friend, the Businessman had begun setting up the second of the three spanking benches. With him was a sexually vibrant, tall woman with dirty blonde dreadlocks and a fantastic heart-shaped ass. Like Blondie, she found herself on all fours on the second spanking bench, her exquisite bum facing the onlookers. Businessman got right to business once Dreadlocks was in place, placing his hands at either asscheek and wiggling them rapidly. Her mound and crinkled sphincter were revealed even more readily than Blondie's had been, and the kisses he gave her bum between rounds of heavy-handed swats demonstrated that he rightfully adored her delectable butt. Their scene quickly became centre-stage as his passionate smacking, teasing, caressing elicted moans and squirms from Dreadlocks. When he too produced a pinwheel, her cries echoed through the room and blended with the trancelike music.

Not long after, a third couple made use of the wooden horse at another end of the room. The tattooed brunette there stood in her leather boots and bent over as her partner squatted and delivered a more tender, loving type of spanking to her panty-clad tush. His face was within an inch or two of her small, bubbly ass, and as he went into his own headzone his mouth slacked open with quiet pleasure.

My vantage point was front row centre. To my left, Petite Brunette and her small ass received loving open-handed attention at the horse. Blondie's plump ass was as red as the lighting as Sultan casually continued with wooden rods. To my right, Dreadlocks squirmed and yelped, revealing more and more of her beautful, heartshaped ass as she was pinwheeled and spanked. I sipped my beer contentedly as, for me, these delicious women became the Three Graces, each receiving torment and pleasure on their magnificent behinds.

Later, I'd enjoy the sight of Dreadlocks relaxing languidly on one of the couches, her back to Businessman's chest as her jilled her over her g-string, her thigh receiving caresses from a striking, smirking, bald black woman. Sultan administered another spanking to another partner. Near the dance floor, Rave and Kitty Girl would be sparring in their own furry way. Another couple, Overdramatic Goth Boy and Overdramatic Goth Girl, enjoyed a dramatic spanking scene on the dance floor stage amid the shutter snappings of a woefully young paparazzi. I flirted with a bartender and delivered compliments to some of the other Tops whose playwork I had been enjoying.

A fine night out.

And yes, I did think of Shayne, and of the fun I could have shown her there were she with me. We hadn't opportunity to play nearly enough, and there's so much I hadn't had the chance to share with her there. But, checking my email once I got back to my own dungeon, a message waited from a friend who had heard I was attending the playparty. Perhaps I won't be stag next time. One never knows.




thumbs Fetish Masquerade, personal collection, Wikipedia

Shayne enrolls in school.

My waiter, dressed in a smart canary yellow waistcoat, had arrived with the coffee. I enjoyed his attentiveness as I crossed my legs to relax, casually looking across the street to the building she would soon emerge from. This elegant Italian bistro couldn't possibly have been situated more appropriately.

I wore my favourite black suit, the black silk tie flowing down my cobalt-blue shirt like a river of exquisite anguish. I relished the sensual fusion between the fresh air, my excellent coffee, my evening's attire, and the knowledge that this new, endearing, lustfully wonderful little tart I had discovered was about to get a hint of what she had been asking for. I was especially looking forward to spanking her womanly ass. I smiled, pleased with myself, as my hand patted the package I had set on the chair beside me. She wasn't expecting this, not exactly all of this, tonight.

She came from the building. I made eye contact with her, and with a slightly bemused smile, she came across the street toward my table under the scarlet canopy. My waiter returned to refill me as she set herself down. Asking me if she would like some coffee as well, I enjoyed seeing both his and her faces briefly contort with confusion when I replied that, no, she will not be having any. Like her, the coffee was singularly my pleasure tonight.

In time, I pushed a small white plate across the linen to her. On the plate was a black leather bracelet.

"This is the time for you to ask your questions," I said to her. "If you choose to pursue what I'm offering, what you have asked to share with you, then show that acceptance by placing this bracelet on your right wrist. This is very old-school. But also know that your placing the bracelet upon yourself will also be your final independent act, until it is removed, and then by me. Once you've worn this, everything you do and say will be prioritized with my pleasure in mind. You will be my pet. You will behave accordingly. Do you understand?"

She tried to be coy, but I saw the swallow and the slow nod that followed. She asked her questions. She received her safe word. With a silent pause, she lifted the bracelet from the plate and snapped it upon her wrist. I finished my coffee and stood.

"Take that package," I instructed, motioning to the other chair, and walked away. She followed.

As we walked through the crowded downtown streets, I gave her a crash course of all the basic expectations I would have for her if she wanted to pursue this sort of experience with me. She listened attentively as she tried to keep up with me. Soon, I had taken us into the elegant lobby of a corporate building. Guiding her past the sumptuous couches, I stood her next to the door of the women's room. I gave her a kiss, looked at my watch, and then looked directly into her adorable eyes.

"You have ten minutes. You will change into the contents of that package and you will place what you are wearing neatly folded in it. For each minute that you are late, you will receive one stroke. Do you understand?"

Her eyes widened as she nodded, trying to stifle a nervous laugh. Around us, businesspeople wandered. An old man turned the page of his newspaper. I smiled at her and relaxed on one of the elegant couches as she disappeared.

I waited. I waited a little longer. My my. I waited some more. Oh, dear me. The poor thing, thought I to myself.

Some 33 minutes later, she emerged with a blush and look of confusion. The blue tartan skirt and the white bobbysox were charming on her and fit her well. The crisp white shirt had the proper cut to accentuate her waist and ensconce her breasts. I had also selected proper shoes and underwear for my little tart.

But the poor wee thing just couldn't manage the tie. I laughed when I pictured her, bent over the washroom sink under the mirror, frantically doing and undoing the tartan tie, sweating over how much time she was taking. I lwas amused.

Helping the poor distressed baby, feigning a supportive pout, I did the unfortunate thing's tie up for her. Oh, the price she'll have to pay for that. But then, that's what daddies are for.

On our way to my car now as we continued our walk among corporate alphas and betas. To amuse myself, I had her skipping towward the car as she obeyed my instruction to open the door for me. Once inside, I reached under her seat for the chain I had set there, and affixing the handcuffs to a link by means of handy clasp, I cuffed her in such a way that her hands were held low and between her legs. I was amused.

From another compartment, I produced the brown leather collar and the leash. I showed them to her.

"Earlier, I explained that the bracelet, and its being on your right wrist, is old school. So is this," I said, gently shaking it. "The leather is brown because, as a pet, you are inferior. You are untrained, and to wear black, or steel, or lace is a privilege that you have yet to earn. And yet, to wear any Top's collar, no matter the make or style, is your reason for being and the most important honour. Your bracelet reminds you that you are in playspace. The collar reminds you, and shows all, that you are the property and pleasure of your Top. Do you understand?"

She nodded as I buckled the soft brown leather around her neck. I smiled as I affixed the leash to the D-ring and tugged her head closer to me for a kiss. A few teasing smacks on her bare thighs, a gentle probe under her tartan, a random squeeze of her tit over the crisp schoolgirl shirt, and I started the engine.

"All learning should be sweet," someone told me once. So, simply for the contrasting debauch and the humour it brought me, I began Shayne's training experience with a visit to an old-fashioned soda shop where she, in her authentic Catholic schoolgirl uniform, enjoyed a root beer float.

Me, I had more coffee. Not much later, coffee wasn't all that continued to stimulate me.

The ponytail that did me in.

Molly stayed the night, and we were sipping coffee and making small talk after breakfast.

"How areya feeling?" I asked.

"Doing fine. Something on your mind?"

There was, and I was asking myself how shamelessly forward I felt like being. "I was having some randy thoughts." I paused, smirking. She smirked back. "I was asking myself how you might feel if I just out and asked you if you'd like to give me a blowjob before you go." I paused. She smiled wide. "But, I haven't actually asked you that, so I wouldn't know."

"Well, maybe you should be more direct."

Taking her hand, I led her back into the bedroom and peeled off my shirt. As I lowered my jeans, she was appreciatively looking at my swinging and thickening cock. I spread out on the bed. She still wore her top and panties, which she wore through breakfast.

Having breakfast with a woman in panties is really hot.

"You like to suck cock, don't you?"

She nodded as she coiled herself around my legs. "I do. Often I can cum from doing that alone."

She began with nuzzles, moving her face across and on my head. Her tongue soon followed, and it wasn't long before her mouth was pumping and sucking.

Usually, it takes me a while to cum, and when it comes to blowjobs, I really need to know my lover is into it and totally enjoying it for me to. Molly, it turns out, was completely cool with being there as long as I wanted, and that was a huge relief for me. It let me relax enough so that as I thrust into her mouth, I knew (and did) pull back from time to time to make the fun last. She wasn't rushing herself or me, and every time I asked her how she was liking the feel and taste and texture of me, she groaned her approval.

It was then when I realized how rare it was for me to be having sex with a longhaired woman, and Molly's black locks were cascading on my thighs and across her face as she serviced my dick. While a novelty for me, it also got a little annoying... until I realized that I could draw her hair into a ponytail as I held her head. And that opened my naughty brain into a new vista of dirty.

I thought of our age difference, and from there I was her teacher and she was this naughty schoolgirl sucking my dick. A bad schoolgirl who desperately needed a better grade. A young slut who loved sucking cock. I pumped into her mouth now, gently holding her hair into that ponytail, and she groaned as she slurped. This was the mindfuck I needed.

"I'm close," I grunted. "You want it?!"

She sucked harder.

Watching the ponytail on her bobbing head, feeling her lips tighten, her tongue swirling, I was relieved to feel my cum start to roil. It wasn't much longer before I started to burst, load after load, into her sucking mouth. Molly's entire body started to shudder as she came, and she sucked me harder and more persistently as she did so. Her tongue kept swabbing me past my point of oversensitivity. She nursed on me as I shook and started to laugh. I'm certain the women upstairs from me heard my grunts and growls as I came.

I like thinking about that.