July 28, 2009

Just Let Me Dance You, Give Yourself Over

He gestured to her to get up, and join him out on the dance floor. He offered her his right hand, palm up, open, in front of her and she placed her left hand, fingers, onto his open palm. He tilted his hand slightly so that her fingers were hooked over the edge of his hand. He looked over at her and saw some apprehension in her eyes, he stared into her eyes for a moment, smiled at her, and stepped forward, beginning to pull her along by her accepted hand. She walked forward with him, but about a half step back, almost reluctantly, but also excited by the prospect of something they had talked about off and on, for months. She was finally going to be danced, he was going to dance her.

She had danced with others, sure, many times, but she knew this was not about them dancing with each other, she was going to give herself over to this, she knew he was very clearly going to lead her, take her where he wanted, and she would follow. He had told her there would be no skills problem, he would lead, she would follow, it was not something she needed to know how to do, all she had to do was feel him against her, and follow. She feared she would make false steps, embarrass herself, and him, not show grace. He had told her it would be easy; even so, she was reluctant and apprehensive, but could not wait to be taken by him in this way.

As they reached the edge of the dance floor, he lead her around in front of him while he moved forward taking a partial step, turning to his right, positioned directly in front of her, further away than she had imagined he would be. The open space between their bodies was like an unanswered invitation. Then, he took her left hand and moved it to his side, holding it so that her fingers slipped through his belt loop and her thumb hooked over the waist band of his jeans. Once her hand was in place, he slowly slid his hand up her wrist, thumb on top, pressing down firmly, and fingers lightly tracing over her skin on the underside of her arm; up along her forearm to her elbow, around the bend of her elbow and up the back of her upper arm; and onto her shoulder. But his hand did not stop at her shoulder, it moved across her shoulder and around to the back of her neck, up under her shoulder length hair and rested there, with the heel of his palm on the side of her neck, fingers curled around to the nape of her neck. His thumb pressed gently on her jaw bone, tilting her head up slightly and looking into his eyes.

He held up his left hand, palm up, invitingly; just as he had with his right hand earlier; and looked down at her. She knew to place her other hand in his and he held it loosely, with their elbows bent slightly, his thumb pressed down and secured her fingers in place, holding her hand now. First with his left foot, he stepped forward as his body approached her, pressed up to hers, and then his right foot came forward, and she felt his knee pressing between her thighs. The open space gone, the invitation offered, accepted and taken. At the same time, his hand slipped down off the back of her neck, and pressed wide open between her shoulder blades, encouraging her forward up against him. As their feet moved toward each other, his right knee slipped deeper between her thighs and she felt herself pressed against his leg above his knee.

And then, the music started -

I'm Sittin' on Top of the World - Willie Nelson & Asleep at the Wheel

. . . and he began to sway with the music, taking small tentative steps, infusing the rhythmic movement to both of them. Slightly moving his upper body to and fro, side to side, pressed against hers, back and forth, and moving his leg, moving hers to the same rhythm, controlling the movement of both their bodies, close together, moving, becoming one . . .

You don't have to think, just follow me,
feel the feeling let your body be,
We'll just be moving, so don't worry,
We're dancing in our own little world.

We're just out here, on the dance floor,
step to the right, pause, then once more,
we'll just move slowly, so don't worry,
simply move slowly, follow my lead.

Just let me dance you, and romance you,
you don't have to think, nothing to do,
slow, sultry, swaying, soft persuading,
just let me dance you, give yourself over.

July 20, 2009

Bus Stop

The Consensual Stalker

He had told her she might be "seeing" him today. Now, there she was, sitting at the bus stop, reading a magazine, seeming completely engrossed. He wondered if she was with the other woman sitting on the bench, obviously older, perhaps her mother, or aunt? He took the bus schedule out of his pocket, looked at his watch, and noted he had about five minutes until the bus arrived.

He stood behind her for a minute, just observing, looking like just another person waiting for the bus, but very busy observing his surroundings, the other people around, the traffic, pedestrians. Yes, this was as good a setting as any other for today's adventure. He leaned forward slightly and spoke her name, no response.

"Hello, how are you today?" Still no reaction. He leaned slightly to the right and noticed the wires running from her purse up to her head, ahhh, probably an iPod. A very busy girl, reading, listening, to music? No movement, no bench dancing, perhaps an audio book. Obviously it was loud enough that she was oblivious to noise around her. He leaned down behind her ear, put his hand on top of her head, and spoke firmly into her ear, "Be still, it is me." He felt her startled reaction, but she seemed to understand and raised her head from her attention to the magazine.

His large hand gripped her head and held her steady as he removed the right ear bud. "Better." he said. "It is good to see you, I have missed you." No reaction, stunned silence? He moved his hand on her head, stroking her hair, tangling his fingers in her curls.

"Are you ready for your next lesson?" He felt more than saw her nod her head, and also felt a slight tensing, and maybe a change in her breathing. "Good girl."

Her hair had grown since they were last together and was falling down over her shoulders, obscuring his view. He combed his fingers through her hair and tucked it back behind her ear, improving his view over her shoulder, down the front of her body. Now he could see her breasts heaving, long, deep, slow breaths. He could see her swollen and erect nipple pressing against her shirt, so large and responsive that even her bra could not restrain it.

He placed his mouth close to her ear, "I am surprised you are wearing a skirt today, but it is lovely. You have very nice legs. Knowing you would see me today, did you choose that skirt for me?"

She nodded her head, yes.

"It is quite short, and revealing. Cross your legs for me." She moved to cross them, but he said, "The other way, left over right." She shuffled and moved her legs as he instructed.

"I can nearly see your panties when your legs are crossed like that. You are wearing panties?"

She nodded her head again.

"I hope they are lace fringed bikinis like you wore in the book store?"

Yes, she nodded.

"The same pair, especially for me?" She nodded, and sighed a deep breath. He smiled to himself, recognizing how thoroughly she was responding to him, consciously dressing to appeal, charming.

"Clench your thighs, and rock your upper leg." and she did. he could hear her breathing change after a minute of this.

"Feels good doesn't it?"

He saw her head nod, but also heard a small squeak.

"Squeeze tighter." She gasped again. Her breath was now obviously deeper, quicker. "Snug your leg over even tighter." More indistinguishable noises.

"When the bus arrives, go ahead and get on, and walk to a seat near the back, but keep your gaze down. I am going to sit behind you, and we will continue. When you sit down, adjust your skirt up but do not cross your legs again."

"Here is the bus. Get up, and let's go." And they got onto the bus.

A previous encounter

July 9, 2009


The Thinking Dominant, offers up thought provoking questions from time to time. Their subtext says, "Journal prompts and writing tasks for the Top's mind...because Dominants need help formulating their thoughts sometimes too...." I say, Amen to that.

They recently asked about Authenticity.
  • What are your thoughts regarding those who primarily are attracted to BDSM because of its “transgressive” nature?
  • Are dominants who embrace BDSM more as a fun, taboo way to explore sexuality any less authentic than those who have committed to the philosophy of BDSM/ base their relationships on power exchange regardless of the sexual elements?
Is an ethical Top less Authentic than an ethical Dominant? I don't think so. The notion seems to imply a kind of elitism, "my dominance is better because it fits into some predefined framework". After all, the definitions even tend to suggest that:

authenticity - the truthfulness of origins, attributions, commitments, sincerity, devotion, and intentions.

authentic - entitled to acceptance or belief because of agreement with known facts or experience.

There are any number of forums, particularly across the width and breadth of the Internet that seek to define peoples roles and kinks into finer and finer layers. I think that if people are truthful with themselves and their partners - then it doesn't really matter which side of the coin the Dominant falls on. At some point we get into too much parsing of roles and characteristics.

As in many other venues in life, people ought to celebrate their similarities, not their differences. Think of the differences as the flavorings, or toppings, or decorations on the lovely cakes that we all are.

It is certainly my personal opinion that developing a strong and deep and abiding relationship with someone I do such intimate things with is far more fulfilling and intense than just doing a scene on a stage for others to watch. However, I think that is true of nearly every connection with another human being, regardless of the activity.

July 3, 2009

Friday Fiction: Meal: Mango and Sticky Rice

Friday Fiction: Meal - - Write a brief bit of fiction involving a meal.

I would love to feed it to you, by hand, my hand; not yours, not permitted.
  1. Four portions for each mango slice, first bite the end off, chewed thirteen times, swallow.
  2. Then turned, and bite the other end off, chewed thirteen times again, and swallow, show me your mouth is clean.
  3. Break the remaining center in half and place one piece in your mouth, behind your lower teeth, chew and swallow.
  4. Use my fingers to mash/squish the final piece and let you take it off my fingers with your lips, and then clean the juice off my fingers, chew and swallow.
  5. Repeat 1. through 4. for a second slice.
  6. Pour a sip of water into the palm of my hand for you to drink.
  7. Use my fingers to wipe the corners of your mouth and across your lips.
  8. Then I scoop up a nice sized bite of sticky rice between my fingers and thumb, placing it in your mouth, wiping my fingers clean on your lower lip.
  9. Then a smaller bite of rice, on two fingers, placed behind your lower teeth, and your lips clean my fingers.
  10. Repeat 1. through 9. until full, or . . .
Inspiration compliments of The One-Minute Writer