Frederick

Inspired by Stripping Agnes or Start here, Reeling in Agnes
He had been in Paris for two years now and was thoroughly content with his apartment in the Latin District, with it's small businesses, intermixed with apartments upstairs, and so many wonderful little shops on the street level. One shop he particularly favored was a small corner patisserie where he would have his morning coffee and read the papers. It had become his custom for the past few months, on Friday, Saturday and Sunday mornings. He was infatuated with the neighborhood and the wonderful mix of people, of all ages and backgrounds.

He had gotten to know the shopkeeper and the staff quite well, and had become a bit of a fixture, sitting back in the corner by himself each day, quiet, respectful, but also very curious about all of the people who would come and go. He would greet most people with a nod and gesture as they entered, and might exchange a word or two with those who he had become acquainted with, or perhaps strangers, those who caught his fancy. Admittedly the ones who caught his eye tended to be the younger girls, or the women out doing some shopping early in the day.

One Saturday he noticed an attractive young girl who came in, sat down and ordered a coffee and an almond croissant. She sat quietly a distance away, and seemed to be absorbed in herself and watching the traffic out the window. After watching her for a while he returned to his papers and forgot about her, until she got up to leave. He noticed her manner of dress, plain but attractive, perhaps even frugal. He guessed she must be a clerk in one of the shops in the area, or maybe even an au pair or house girl for some local family. He made note of her and watched her walk off down the street, smiling to himself. A very quiet and solitary girl, he liked that, he made a mental note to watch for her again.

Sure enough, on the following Saturday, late morning, there she was again. He sat down his paper, leaned on an elbow and studied her as she went about her coffee and croissant. She had a natural charm about her, delectable, and he was entertained by the pleasure she took in her meal. As she took her last sip of coffee and looked up, he gave her a big smile and said, "It is good?"

"Delicious," she replied, and added, "I only have one of these a week. I don't make a habit of it."

He gave her a slight nod and returned to his coffee. When he looked up again, she was leaving. He watched her leave, smiled to himself, she will be back next Saturday. He did not want to be too obvious and tip his hand so early on into the game.


Sure enough, the following Saturday there she was. As he was just getting settle and ordering his coffee, she walked in. He looked up and caught her eye. "Bonjour," she offered him, with a lovely smile.

"Bonjour mademoiselle," he returned. "Another croissant for you, today?" When she did not answer, he called out to the shopkeeper, "Two almond croissants, please; one black coffee and one coffee with milk." He paid for the food and ushered her towards a little table by the window. She followed his lead and sat down.

"What is your name?"

"Agnes."

"I am Frederick. And, you live in the neighbourhood?"

"Yes. But, I'm new to Paris. I love it here. The city is so exciting. There is so much to see and do."

He continued to smile at her, nodding in encouragement, saying nothing but spurring her on as she told him about her Parisian discoveries. When the food arrived, he continued to offer reassurance and made sure she had everything she needed. They sat and talked as they drank coffee and ate their croissants.  He continued to encourage her to talk about her new life in Paris.  As she was finishing her coffee and setting her plate aside, he suddenly stood up and said, "Come with me and I shall show you where I live. It is a lovely view of Paris from the balcony."

She stood up too, but seemed to be struck with indecision. Before she could say yes or no, he stepped around the table, took hold of her wrist and started to guide her out. She picked up her purse and followed him out the door. Just as he had hoped, his swift and decisive movement, and authority, had captured her attention, and she was with him now. He walked up the street, turned into his building, and pausing a moment to be sure she was still with him, ushered her toward the stairway to his apartment. As he followed her up the stairs, he made note of her trim ankles, the shape of her calves, and musculature of the backs of her thighs. When they reached his landing he led her to the balcony outside of his kitchen.

"There it is. The rooftops of Paris." he said, and smiled at her, reengaging with her, standing close, touching his hand to the back of her arm. As she looked out over the rooftops, he stared at her, drinking her in.

"Ohhhhhh, how beautiful. How fortunate you are to wake up to this every morning." She turned and looked at him, then again back out over the view, and then suddenly she was saying, "Thank you, Frederick. But, I must go. I have so many errands to do today."

He looked at her face, turned slightly away from him, and recognized that fear in her. She seemed confused and disturbed. He decided not to hold her there, but showed her down the stairs again and out to the street. He said, "I hope I will see you at the patisserie again soon." They said their goodbyes, and she turned and walked off. He watched her as she went up the street, back the way they had come.


Next weekend he waited for her at the patisserie but she did not come in. He wondered if she had been scared off by his actions. He had been quite abrupt in inviting her to his apartment, perhaps she had feared something about him in that situation. Perhaps he had read her wrong? He wondered, and reviewed his approach in his mind, thinking he might need to adjust his pace with her if there was another opportunity. After a while he returned to his papers and let Agnes drift out of his mind.


Thursday evening he was doing his shopping for dinner in the market when he turned a corner, there was Agnes standing at the cheese cooler. He stepped up behind her, leaned forward to her ear and said, "Are you going to tell me that you only eat Camembert cheese once a week, as well?"

She was startled and pulled away. But then she turned her head, saw who it was and said hello to him. She turned around to face him and smiled. He said, "Hello Agnes, I am very pleased to see you again, I was afraid I had lost you." She looked at him but when she looked into his eyes, she quickly lowered her head, and said, "I am sorry for the way I acted at your apartment, but I was uncomfortable for some reason. I am glad we are meeting again."

He looked into her basket and saw that it contained just a single baguette.  He had already selected a nice bottle of wine, a loaf of bread and various produce for a large salad. "Would you like to join me for dinner?"

She did not respond immediately, but looked at his basket, then at her own, and finally said, "For dinner?"

The Hallway - Flash Fiction Friday

(Image provided by Sephani Paige, original source unknown)

As the bar closed, I stumbled out the door, thankful I lived around the corner. I headed down the sidewalk, turned right, and jumped into the liquor store for a bottle of Skyy. It was half a block to the apartment.

I buzzed through the door, crossed the lobby, and turned toward the stairway to the basement apartments. I blundered down the steep stairwell. With every step the stairs creaked, startling two young girls standing naked in the hallway below.

I started to walk by, but the one girl asked, "Got a cigarette?" Setting my bottle down, I offered her a cigarette and my lighter. The other girl suddenly knelt in front of her friend, who hooked a leg over her shoulder. Instantly, I felt invisible, inconsequential. I staggered back several feet and fell onto the steps, adjusting myself in my slacks.

The girl lighting the cigarette laughed, "Don't mind us."

"I don't mind at all," I grinned, and settled back on the stairs, staring, opened my zipper, and thought, "Don't mind if I do."

(Click for details on FFF!)

(Using this picture, write a flash fiction of 150-180 words, 

incorporating the phrase "...the stairs creaked...")

FFF Friends/Offerings 

Tentacle Sex "Tentacle Dreams"

"The phrase "tentacle sex" evokes a standard trope of Japanese animation, featuring hideous demonic creatures having their way with helpless sailor-suited schoolgirls. The genre is a perfect example of unintended consequences; there was a time in Japanese cinema when any depiction of a penis was forbidden. Having penis-shaped appendages do the work instead of the actual item was the solution that the movie producers took to evade the rule, thus creating depictions that some would argue are far more graphic than the banned material could have been."

"The fact that this style of animation continues to be produced after the rules were changed, is evidence that there is a strong connection between sex and horror. In our imaginations, it is safe to ponder the sexual innocent taken by an inhuman horror and driven to the heights of ecstasy, beyond the limits of propriety. The ten stories in this anthology take that theme and run in a dozen different directions." 

I know some of the writers in this anthology, and have read some of the stories, they are beyond ordinary erotica, and very good. I encourage you to go to Tentacle Dreams at Republica Press and get a copy for yourself.  It is quick and easy, an immediate download, offered in a variety of reading formats.

While you are there, check out Hearteater, another anthology, including many of the same authors, inspired by the trigger, "Don't let someone take & eat your heart".  All proceeds from Hearteater will go to the charity WaterAid.

Sometimes . . .

  . . . when browsing the internet,

or tumbr I see beautiful pictures

that make me think of you . . .

  . . . like this one,  because in the

shapes, I find my imagination.

e[lust] edition # 21

Welcome to e[lust] - Your source for sexual intelligence and inspirations of lust from the smartest & sexiest bloggers! Whether you’re looking for hot steamy smut, thought-provoking opinions or expert information, you’re going to find it here. Want to be included in e[lust] #22? Start with the rules, check out the schedule and subscribe to the RSS feed for updates!

Have a look at all the great submissions - go here, read more

Passive vs. Active Submission

There has been a interesting dialog going on for the past couple months, not a raging torrent but a subtle undercurrent around the matter of passive vs. active submission. Several women have spoken out about their interest and desire to be active in their submission. The classic notion of a submissive is one of passivity, a calm, a measured response, that conforms to some image that includes demure, and slight and slow.  Submission that is a restrained response, because the girl is often restrained, and it sets a tone or pattern, and she often feels that is what is expected of her. That she is expected to be quiet and calm and still and respond, and certainly is not expected to initiate.

It is a bit of a dilemma really, because she does what she thinks he wants, and so it seems it might put the onus on the dominant to guide on this.  I have looked around and not found much in the way of Dom-speak on this subject.  Most of what you see are submissive reactions or their own take on their feelings or behavior.  So, just what is the proper amount of energy/enthusiasm to put into active submission?  I think submissives often feel that they walk that fine line between expressing themselves, and drawing his wrath for being un-submissive and attempting to grab control, and I suspect it tends to make a girl very passive.

So, what do we dominants expect?  Firstly, in this matter, the dominant can be his own worst enemy. I think the nature of submission is passivity, but I appreciate a girl who leans into her submissiveness and uses it, plays with it and even initiates.  By leaning I mean expressing a more active inclination rather than a standing still waiting.  Maybe step up the assertiveness 20 or 30% but not too much, not 60 or 70%, (strange to put a number on it) but perhaps it gives a sense.  One way to be more active is to be "playful" or to "ask questions", something that gives her an "in" into the situation, perhaps to tease and taunt, play the part of a subtle seductress.

I said that this was a current topic of discussion, but I think my first thoughts in this area stemmed from a posting by meg, of Persephone in Love, well over two years ago, when her former owner suggested to her, "your kissing is too passive."
"Let me show you what it feels like." he brought his lips up to hers and held them almost completely still. She said it felt uncomfortable and disconnecting. He agreed, "that's going to stop. every kiss you give is going to be passionate and active. you're going to pursue the kissing; you're going to use your whole mouth and your tongue." She wrinkled my nose. "but that's not very submissive."

So many submissives think that they should just lay back and willingly let things happen. They do not actively reflect back the love and affection, returning it with all the passion they feel for their owner/master/lover/top. That brief discussion on passivity/passion around a kiss is a perfect example. Give every bit of yourself and throw all of your passion into every act of submission.

And in a recent post by Jz, the Tiger Girl she said:
. . . (it) is facetious and exaggerated - but you really do read a lot of advice out there about service and most of it is couched in terms that strike me as very zen and passive. Admirable, soothing qualities and I do NOT belittle them. But Tiger Girl is all about action! Submission is simply not passive to me. Instead, I see it as an active process, one that I am continually reviewing, redirecting, and refining. So, as you can probably guess, I am constantly being tripped up by the word "service".

I don't disagree with the concept, mind you, but to reconcile the discrepancies within my head, I have to frame it differently. I can't picture myself as the graceful lily, sitting with head bowed, waiting for directions. Rather, I am the tiger, crouching in the veldt, poised to spring into action when needed. 

On another blog, BDSM: A Kinster's Guide, she goes so far as to say, she does not want to be submissive, she wants to be conquered:
"I don't want to be told not to sit on the toilet seat or denied an orgasm. I want to be conquered. I want to be dominated. I want to be subdued.

To describe me as "submissive" rings false to me because I, while I greatly respect the women who do, do not get my main sense of identity from being dormant or servile. I don't want the identity of a submissive; I want to be with a man who holds the title of Dominant. He can be a dominant, a master, a warrior, a king. I want to get my identity, not from the quality of my actions, but from him. Who is he. That is where I want to derive my identity, and with it all the adjectives I use to describe myself.

Perhaps this goes beyond the active submission I have been talking about, in to something that might even be called aggressive submission.

Finally, another example of something "bordering" on aggressive submission is the writing presented by Kate, of the Games the Shrew plays... (she has recently moved her journals to FetLife.)
She has two documented experiences so far, The Rape Experiment, and Consensual Kidnapping; she is pursuing some very aggressive or assertive examples of submitting, delving deeply into the domain of consensual non-consent. Perhaps you might view them as bottoming rather than submission; however, they are examples of a most willful way of submitting herself to another, and they are very active examples indeed.

These are instances of submissive women seeking an alternative to the old classic D/s style where the submissive passively waits for guidance and direction from her lord and master. Or it maybe a changing of the paradigm of dominance and submission, reevaluating the older style and expectations. I am a bit on the conservative side, and find tradition and decorum very pleasing in many ways, but I find in this matter, I am fully in support of this more active form of submission.

Addendum
In the comments section Vesta said she would write more on this topic and indeed she did, have a look at Active versus Passive Submission A thoughtful perspective from the submissive point-of-view.

And more:
And greengirl said, for me, i think it's all active
And cassie said, Too far gone?

And then Pygar said, passive vs active submission

Please, jump in and join the conversation, active? passive? aggressive? what say you?

"Far Far" - There's This Little Girl Inside

If for some reason it does not play correctly - it can be played at YouTube

Far far, there's this little girl
she was praying for something to happen to her
everyday she writes words and more words
just to spit out the thoughts that keep floating inside
and she's strong when the dreams come cos' they
take her, cover her, they are all over
the reality looks far now, but don't go

How can you stay outside?
there's a beautiful mess inside
how can you stay outside?
there's a beautiful mess inside
oh oh oh oh

Far far, there's this little girl
she was praying for something good to happen to her
from time to time there are colors and shapes
dazzling her eyes, tickling her hands
they invent her a new world with
oil skies and aquarelle rivers
but don't you run away already
please don't go oh oh

How can you stay outside?
there's a beautiful mess inside
how can you stay outside?
there's a beautiful mess inside
Take a deep breath and dive
there's a beautiful mess inside
how can you stay outside?
There's a beautiful mess
beautiful mess inside

Oh beautiful, beautiful

Far far there's this little girl
she was praying for something big to happen to her
every night she hears beautiful strange music
it's everywhere there's nowhere to hide
but if it fades she begs
"oh lord don't take it from me, don't take it" she says

I guess I'll have to give it birth
to give it birth
I guess, I guess I have to give it birth
I guess I have to, have to give it birth
there's a beautiful mess inside and it's everywhere

so shake it yourself now deep inside
deeper than you ever dared
deeper than you ever dared
there's a beautiful mess inside
beautiful mess inside


"Far Far" by Yael Naim

Timeless in a Window's Light

He'd been sitting in his chair reading a magazine as he watched her walk into the room, peel off her swimsuit, and shake out her hair. He expected that she would put on the little silken robe; instead, she walked over to the window. She stood there, naked and smooth and bare, silhouetted by the sunlight shining softly through the louvered windows, muted by the loosely gathered sheers.

She was breathing slowly and quietly; such a calm and simple moment, almost like she was captured in time. Watching her just standing there, he felt a growing desire. He got up from his chair and walked up behind her. He was over a foot taller than her and carried nearly double her weight. She was so small, and muscular and shapely, so petite, it made him hold his breath when he thought about touching and holding her.

He placed his hands on the outside edges of the small of her back, right at her waist. His hands were so large that his fingers fell into the curves of her waist and the heels of his hands rested on the muscles of the small of her back.

She murmured softly but did not respond in any other way, almost as if it had been a breeze caressing her skin, rather than his hands.  He slid his hands up her back, up over her shoulder blades, to her shoulders, and combed his fingers up into her hair. He pulled it back off of her shoulders and behind her ears, gathering it at the back of her neck. He continued to comb it and smooth it into a tighter and closer ponytail, until it was taut across her head and completely gathered at the back of her neck.

He held her hair with his left hand and used his right hand to guide himself against the middle of her back, his shaft laying in the shallow depression of her spine, at the center of the small of her back, her skin so soft and cool and damp, against his hot flesh. He smiled as he felt her shift her weight back slightly, accepting him against her body and moving just slightly, settling him into just the right spot. As she pressed against him, he was twisting the bunch of her hair that was gathered in his hand, entwining it tighter against the back of her neck, and pulling her head back under his chin.

His other hand slipped between her arm and her side and curved across her stomach, and down across to her opposite hip. With this grip on her he pulled her tightly against him even more, as he rotated his hips up and back, working his stiff sensitive vein against her backbone just under her skin. The hard vertebrae of her spine worked against him, and the movement and knobby surface made him harder and harder. His hand pulling back across her stomach and the other pulling her head back further created the perfect trough in the middle of her back for him to move up and down against her warming skin. Now she was joining in and rocking her hips back and forth, raising her bottom up and pushing up against him, and creating an even snugger concave depression for him to move against.

His breathing became heavier and heavier as he worked harder against her back and he leaned his head down next to her ear, to get closer to her and to look over the front of her body, watching her breasts heaving and swaying. He loved how hard her nipples had gotten and the sight of them added to his building arousal. She continued to buck along with him and he could feel his orgasm building, he was certain she could sense his greater stiffness and likely felt his contractions. Just as he was about ready, he moved his hand from her stomach down and cupped her mound, tangled in her pubic hair and curling two fingers inside her. He squeezed her tightly, hooking his fingers deeper, pulling back and lifting her up against him tighter as he released onto her back, holding her against him as he throbbed and jerked.

As he breathed heavily he removed his fingers and leaned back so he could use them to clean her back. He pulled her head back further and to the side, wiped his wet and sticky fingers across her lips, and into her mouth. He took his fingers out, slid them down the front of her torso and plunged them back into her. He turned her head completely to him and shoved his tongue into her mouth, as he rubbed and pinched her mound, her hood and her lips. He felt her body start to shake, and he knew.

There Are No Words . . .

Close Enough

In the main, a man is happy to have a beautiful, and talented, and lovely woman for a partner, one who compliments him, accentuates him, makes him happy. He wants to be comfortable in the relationship and so does not make any real demands, does not want anything, he thinks she is just fine as she is. And she may be, but maybe she wants to be more, wants to grow and expand, and certainly he is happy to support her in her growth, if that is what she wants, gladly.

But on the whole, men accept their partners nearly as they are, and feel happy/lucky to have them and grateful that their personalities overlap so well and accept that, as is, for the most part. He doesn't want anything more from her, for her, of her. He certainly doesn't want her to think that he thinks she needs to change. He thinks she is just fine as she is. Having found that partner, someone who is enough, just as they are, he has no real thought or intent that he might improve her or help her improve, although he certainly would likely be supportive.

And then there are some men, men who have what? Some kind of arrogance? Certain kinds of men who want to help and mold their partner. Delve into her wishes, and wants, and desires, dig down and find out what she needs, and find ways to bring those urges and impulses to the surface. To nurture them, to work with her, work on her, actively help her strive toward that ideal, to work on making her the perfect something special. To blend in his own desires, and intentions, and direction; his vision of her as well. He wants to challenge, and coach, and question, and push, all these things to help her grow, and become even more. And he knows she might resist from time to time, but will come to rely on that push and guidance, that encourages her.

I read this recently:

. . . what is wonderful about being a submissive is that the right dominant man can teach you so much about yourself. As a submissive, your place is not just to serve, but to grow; to flourish in his attentive and intelligent care.

Yin yang are complementary opposites within a greater whole. Everything has both yin and yang aspects, although yin or yang elements may manifest more strongly in different objects or at different times. Yin yang constantly interacts, never existing in absolute stasis.

More (and then)

Welcoming him at the door each night, postured,
prepared, taking his coat, umbrella and attache;
(and then) his hand on her cheek, increases her calm.

Hosting a party, greeting guests with a smile,
shaking their hands, nodding in acknowledge;
(and then) no words, a weekend of silence.

Sitting quietly together, enjoying an evening movie,
the beverage fills her, her body needs relief;
(and then) she must ask permission, may I? please?


Dressed in business wear, she is a true professional,
Blazer/skirt, ruffled blouse, heels/stockings, jewelry;
(and then) a yarn bracelet, reminds, a special task.

A carefree day of shopping, sunny, fine weather,
selecting blouses, and skirts, and pants, and shoes;
(and then) phone pictures sent, seeking endorsement.

Arrives home, undresses, stretches, and takes her shower,
towels partially dry, cool damp skin, chilled by fans;
(and then) a daily ritual, she follows, proudly, against her will.
"It's so easy to submit my will to yours, when all I want, is to give you everything."

(and more)

She pulls into the driveway, parks her car,
Rings the bell, waiting for him to answer the door;
(and more), he opens the door, eyes locked on hers, and says, "Now".

She comes in the door, removes her shoes,
places her purse and keys on the table;
(and more), kneels down, head forward, for the collar.

Standing on a balcony, leaning on the rail,
pressed close, intimately, gazing at each other;
(and more), he grabs her throat, squeezes.


Sitting in a lounge, side by side, on stools,
leaning shoulder to shoulder, talking idly about nothing;
(and more), his hand goes between her thighs, taking.

Dinner is prepared, taken to the table, places set,
he says "thank you", she smiles back, "you're welcome";
(and more), silently, not speaking, until released to do so.

Out to dinner with her man, dressed to the nines,
she walks back from the ladies room, on display;
(and more), handing him her folded panties.


After dinner, as they leave, the valet brings the car,
he guides her into place, touches her head affectionately;
(and more), locking his fingers in her hair, gripping tightly.

Girl on her back on the couch, spread open,
him leaning over her, pounding her vigorously;
(and more), shoving his fingers into her mouth, filling her.

Ready for bed, standing naked, she waits,
he is absorbed, prolonging the wait, she relaxes;
(and more), as she never would have before.

and more, and more; (and then) even more, than ever before.

Impossibly Close

I want to wrap your body in mine. With one arm around your shoulders and the back of your neck, fingers tangled in your hair, and the other pulling you into me, pressed into the small of your back. Your arms wrapped over mine, curled up and holding to the back of my shoulders and base of my neck, down to the middle of my back.

With the side of your face against my collarbone and your forehead tucked under my jaw, and my cheek against your temple. And my nose buried into the warmth of your hair. Your breasts completely flatten against my chest, and your hard nipples poking into me.

One thigh firmly between yours, your outside leg warped around mine, and my other pressed side by side against the outside of your other thigh and my foot tucked onto the back of your knee. With your pelvis pressed right up against my hip bone, and the warmth and furriness of your crotch, pressed down on my upper thigh, and me pressed against your stomach and side, just below your rib cage.

I want to completely warp you up in my arms and legs, with yours responding in kind so that we nearly become completely molded against and around each other, sharing our warmth, and breathing in unison. And then pull our heads back just slightly and kiss, hard, and deep, and long, and slowly.

Sometimes I want you that totally and completely, impossibly close and still then closer.

Pinned Down, and positioned

An excerpt . . . from . . . Just Thinking About You, Well, Perhaps not Just . . .

I came into the room and found her lying on her right side, napping, with her back close to the edge of her side of the bed; her knees bent and legs curled up slightly, naked. Her arms were prayer positioned in front of her, wrists together, crossed in fact, with her hands tucked up under her cheek slightly. The depth of her sleep was evident from the sound of her breathing, mixed with the slightest little snoring sound; she seemed completely at rest and at ease.

I stepped up to the edge of the bed, watching her ribcage rise and fall, relishing the curves of her body, the shape of her hips, the way her breasts settled down toward the mattress, and the way her hair fell, almost completely obscuring her face. I placed my right knee onto the bed so that my inner thigh was pressed against the middle of her back, my ankle pressed close against the cheeks of her buttocks, spreading them a little bit apart. She stirred just slightly as my weight shifted her gently, back toward my leg and more firmly against my thigh.

To counter balance the weight shift I swung my left leg over and settled it down against her upper stomach, just below her breasts. As I settled into place she stirred even more, turning her head toward me to see what was going on, why she was suddenly "surrounded". As she looked at me I sat back with some of my weight onto her waist, nearly like settling into the saddle astride a horse, the outward curve of her hip acting much like the upward curve of the back of a saddle. She tried to turn toward me, to roll over onto her back, but she was pinned in place by my thighs and my weight sitting on her hip.

Unable to roll off of her side and face me, she attempted to move her arms, to place her left arm around my waist but I put my hand firmly on her bicep and pushed her arms back down into place, pinning them against the firmness of the mattress. She recognized the intent of my gesture and settled back down, back to that comfortable position on her side. As she settled back down, accepting my presence, I bent forward slightly at the waist, leaning my torso along the side of hers and rested my hand on the mattress loosely gripping a tangle of her hair at the back of her head, pinning her head down, and whispered in her ear . . .

A Submissive Test?

I think most of us enjoy these various internet tests that give us a chance to evaluate or validate or gain some kind of insight into our personalities. I have featured a couple on this blog:

Myer-Briggs Personality Sorter

Inclination to BDSM

What Kind of Weather Am I

I recently came across "The Submissive Test", which appears to have been made up by someone over on OKCupid. Thank turiya over at Spirited Meanderings for bringing this to light, have some fun with it. I don't know how scientific or accurate or fair it is, but these kinds of things are always fun to take and show to our friends and say things like, "See, I told you." or "Wow, that really surprises me." So, to give credit where due, if you want to take the test, and why wouldn't you? Here is the link, go take the test, you know you want to:

Submissive Test

I took the test, on the premise that even as a dominant, if I answer the questions honestly and indicate my likes and dislikes, perhaps it will provide some kind of insight into what it is about submissives that excite me. I found some of the questions difficult to answer for a couple reasons, one perhaps being that I am not a submissive and so the mindset for the answer is not clear within me, but also I found some of the questions did not offer a good clear choice, and so I selected the closest answer, or the least un-favorite answer. I guess this is likely true for many of these kinds of multiple choice quizzes.

At any rate, it was kind of fun, I don't put a lot of stock in the answers, but I agree that it offers a fair insight.

Oh, yea, yes, of course, sure I did, she is most likely:

a Submitter

You scored: 30% Humiliation, 67% Submissiveness, 39% Service, and 42% Pain

Yea, pretty much, I'd say, sounds pretty right?

Take You For a Ride in My Car-Car

Driving home from work on Friday, I was reminded of how much I love to drive a car, I always have. (I even participated in amateur auto racing several years back.) As I drove along, I noticed how comfortable I was, settled in my seat, feet on the pedals, holding the steering wheel, strapped in place by the belts, operating the controls, enjoying the whole process. Fully engaged in observing the activities around me, maneuvering in traffic, adjusting, compensating, making allowances for the vagaries of others, ready to adapt to situations that might arise.

And then I got to thinking about being in a car, going somewhere, and realized, I am always the driver, never the passenger. I have made various excuses for it over the years, even to the point of offering to drive when it was not completely practical, or there may have been advantage to letting another drive. One of the associated pleasures or related tasks is always to be sure there is a well preplanned trip, virtually always knowing where I am going, how best to get there and alternatives along the way should unforeseen events disrupt the adventure.

Another aspect of this is perhaps some old fashioned chauvinism from my upbringing. I can probably count on one hand the number of times I have been a passenger in a car when a woman was driving, or anyone for that matter. It has nothing to do with an attitude about women drivers because, again when racing several years ago, some of my fiercest and most effective competition were female drivers. I think it is simply part of my make up, perhaps along with other old fashioned notions. She once wrote a story that started out thus:

"My first clue that something was amiss was him handing me the car keys and coming around to open the door for me. He never lets me drive, 'Driving is a man's responsibility, ladies should ride and relax', I had heard many times before. After I was seated in the car . . . he offered me the buckle for my seat belt, which I pulled across and clicked into place."

When I am taking a girl somewhere, I always open the passengers door, making sure she is settled, comfortable, and fully ready before closing the door, and going around and getting into the drivers seat. Once settled into the car, I again check to be sure she is buckled in, comfortable, the seat is adjusted to her comfort and convenience, that all is well and we are both ready to get underway.

One additional thing I have noticed, and have had pointed out to me, particularly when I am driving with enthusiasm and vigor, since I have a hold of the steering wheel and obviously am aware of where and when I will be accelerating, braking, turning and making other tactical moves, I am in greater control of my experience in the car. It has been pointed out to me that the passenger, who has simply the seat under them and the seat belt around them, has less connection with the vehicle. They are not privy to the movements or actions I might be taking at any time. In other words, the passenger is usually slightly off balance, and more affected by my whim.

Additionally, there is most always an agenda when traveling in a car, going somewhere, an intention, a plan, something to be done, and again, the passenger is not usually aware of the full scope of what is planned or intended.

It occurs to me as I have thought this through, and written it out, it is clearly not just about driving a car, is it?

Thoughts about Rules

Recently persephone/meg wrote at length about a new rule regarding Stray Hairs, (or spair hair). I can certainly sympathize with her regarding the unmanageable stray hairs, because I prefer girls with longer rather than shorter hair. But I also empathize with Luke regarding the mess that results, and concur with the imposition of a related rule.

But my point here is really about something meg said in the comment section in response to one of her readers, and has nothing to do with hair, but rather rules. I think it bears repeating out in the open rather than being buried in a comment. Not everyone will agree with this, but I, and many I know, think that rules should be fun.

The core of her comment, "as for resenting the rules, i have no idea. i've never done this sort of thing before. however, just because the rules are made doesn't mean that they can't be changed! if i were to start feeling resentful of rules, obviously we would sit down and discuss and make changes. i wouldn't resent luke, because this is all a collaborative process... we chose together to have rules because we thought it would be sexy, so if it stops being sexy then there is no reason to continue having rules."

As a dominant I love reactions to rules, admittedly they are not always positive but when they are, it is the icing on the cake of the Dom/sub relationship. How much fun it is to get these kinds of reactions:

• . . . a shower when I get home from work, against my resistance to water and time spent, but following his instructions anyway turning me on . . .
  
• I enjoyed the reading more and more because I was doing what he had told me to do . . .
• The instruction was simple, and it came with the beginning of a story, to add to my distraction.
• I start thinking about rules. I like rules. What could be a list of rules?
• . . . doing sexual things I don't want to because someone's enjoying making me.

Of course there are going to be serious rules too, made for the welfare or well being of one or the other, or both people. But on balance, make rules that titillate, challenge, arouse, frustrate, tease, entertain, stimulate, and so on.

Again, if you start resenting rules, sit down and change them, don't let that resentment creep into the relationship, and poison the fun. Relationships are supported to be fun, no? Yes!

"If you're not in it for fun, I'm outta here!"

The Key to Making a Successful Blog

I started this blog with the stated purpose of collecting a bunch of links that had been lost with the disappearance of another blog. I wasn't sure what I was going to write about, but I had some experiences and opinions that I thought might be worth sharing. I quickly began building a relationship with some of my readers. But part of that relationship was making posts good so that people would want to read them, and would come back. Then I took a shot at writing a story, an enhanced description of a first meeting, knowing it would be less but wanting to convey the desire, and energy, and anticipation, the affection. And, so, now, 2-1/2 years later, I am curious, what brings you here, and brings you back? So, for fun, please take a couple minutes and complete the poll over there in the right margin. Leave a comment if you would, just ticking a box or two is too easy, speak up! But, most of all, thank you so much for coming back, again and again, for whatever reasons you do.

cartoon from xkcd.com

Poll results = blog list - 10%; wisdom - 35%; stories - 40%, recordings - 5%; cmnf pictures - 10%

On the Bed, then Sleeping

The Consensual Stalker

"Take away my sight please, then I can focus on feeling you . . ."

part 1 - - part 2

third -

He walked into the room, sat in the large overstuffed chair in the corner, and looked all around. Everything seemed exactly the same. Except, on the nightstand, tossed against the base of the lamp, was the scarf which had been twisted around her wrists when he was there last week. He picked them up, there were two silk scarves, tied together at opposite corners to form a large enough loop to twist around 3 or 4 times to provide some bulk and substance. He untied the corners from each other and laid one on top of the other forming a double thickness. He folded them in half diagonally, and then folded in thirds, a nice wide blindfold.

Folded in half, he put it on the corner of the bed next to her pillow, and walked over to the window. He twisted the blinds shut and pulled the curtains across, throwing the room into even deeper darkness. The light from the clock projecting onto the ceiling was now the only illumination. He walked around to the foot of the bed and stood and watched her sleeping. He noticed the water glass and prescription bottle were not on the nightstand. He walked into the bathroom, looked around, looked in the cabinet, and the drawers of the vanity, but the bottle was no where to be seen.

He sat down on the edge of the bed and placed the blindfold over her eyes and held it firmly in place across her face while she struggled with awakening and realization. He leaned forward, put his head down on the pillow and whispered, "It's me, relax." He held her stationary until the reality of recognition settled over her and she calmed herself. Once she recognized what was happening, a smile crossed her lips; and she lifted her head so he could tie the blindfold at the back. As he tied the knot, he noticed the ribbon was no longer pinned to the headboard. "Where is the ribbon bow?" she smiled, but did not answer. "Answer," he muttered, and in response she lifted her head up further and turned her face away from him. He could see the ribbon tied in her hair down by her neck, tied around gathered strands of hair. He took her face in his hand, turned it back toward him and softly chuckled, and kissed her eyes through the blindfold.

"And where is the hobble rope?" he asked. She kicked and flailed at the sheet which was over her legs until they were uncovered, and he could see the rope around her ankles. He burst out laughing, deeply, she was laughing too. When he stopped laughing, he said, "How long have you been wearing these things to bed?"

"This is the fifth night", she said, and they laughed again, and then she looked seriously, "I was beginning to wonder if you might not be coming back."

"Silly girl, you must know me better than that."

He got up and moved to the foot of the bed, and tended to the knots of the hobble rope, cinched them tight so her feet were bound closely together and could not be moved independently. He dragged the back of his fingernails across the soles of her feet, over the tender skin of her instep, but it drew no response. Clearly her feet were not ticklish. He wrapped a hand around each foot; his fingers were over the arches and down the inside, his thumbs pressed into the underside of her arches and the balls of her feet, a massaging motion. He felt the muscles of her feet tensing, a feeling of her trying to pull them away, and moaning and complaining as he pressed harder and deeper.

The more he manipulated her feet, the more she tried to move them. While they were bound at the ankles; she kept moving them side to side, to evade his ministrations. He paused for a minute, and made a little loop on one of the tag ends and slipped it over her big toes, holding them together. She was no longer able to wiggle her feet away from his touch. He kept pressing his thumbs into the muscles of her feet, and she continued to try and pull them away, and continued her moaning and complaining.

He took hold of her ankles and pushed them up the bed, bending her legs at the knees, then with his hands, pressed her knees outward. As her legs fell open, still bound at the ankles, they formed a diamond shape, her crotch, her knees and her ankles. He placed his hands on the bed between her knees, and crawled up onto the foot of the bed, leaning over her legs, kneeling on all fours, with his arms against her knees, keeping them spread open. He moved his head down between her thighs, kissing and nibbling at the tender inner flesh of her right thigh, as his head moved further and further up her leg.

He turned his head downward, opened his mouth and took hold of a good bite of the inner lower back of her thigh, and slowly bit down on it, focusing his senses for any reaction. First he heard a gasp, the sound of a realization of what was happening, but no sign of fear, or dread, or pain, just a gasping and moaning sound, and a reactionary tensing of her thigh muscles. As he bit down harder, he felt her leg try to pull away, but his bite held firm. He was metering his bite so as not to leave a mark, at least not yet, and he as he bit down harder, he waited for further reactions. It came only in the form of her struggling to close her legs, which was blocked by his arms in the backs of her knees, holding them open exactly as they were. He bit down even more, and heard her cry out slightly but she did not make any further attempt to escape.

He let go of the bite and moved his mouth to the top of her thigh and took hold once again. Again she tensed and moaned, but did not offer any resistance or make any move to evade or escape his assault. He bit down even harder this time, realizing he was not biting into such tender flesh, and mostly had a grip of muscle. He held the bite for another minute, working his tongue over her skin, and then let go and moved a few inches further up her thigh. Again she moaned and gasped for air, which seemed to be her only reaction. He let go of the third bite and started to move his head across to her left leg. As his nose passed close to her panties, he got the aromatic confirmation of the effect his attentions were having on her.

He paused and nuzzled his chin down against the front of her bikini panties, she immediately thrust her hips up, pushing hard against his chin. He pushed back with equal force, as he moved his chin back and forth, side to side, up and down. He could feel the hardness of her mound against his chin and lower lip, and he opened his mouth and took in a mouthful of the material of her panties, and a substantial amount of her pubic hair as well. They held each other that way, him locked onto the material of her panties and hair, and her pushing up, grinding against his chin while he moved his jaw slowly, pressing back against her thrusting.

Startled, he felt her hands on either side of his head, fingers curled in his hair, gripping him and lifting him up, and away, and he let go of his mouthful of material. She has originally had her hand tucked under the pillow, under her head, and he had neglected to bind or restrain them in anyway. He let her guide his head up and toward her stomach, and he moved his arms from between her knees, up to either side of her waist, pushing down on the bed, and crawled up so his hips were now where his arms had been, still occupying the space between her flailed out knees, maintaining the open diamond posture.

Once he had himself balanced on his knees again, he taking hold of each of her wrists, pulling them down to her side, and pushed them down under the small of her back. He held them there with his own, and balanced on his elbows. He shifted his weight forward, and pressed up to kiss her. She felt his movement, sensed his target and turn her head to meet his lips, and they kissed, long and hard. The weight of his body lay completely on hers, pressing her down into the mattress, overwhelming and nearly completely covering her.

As they continued the kiss, his hands moved to lift her legs and bound ankles, so they were wrapped around his hips, also lifting her knees up toward her shoulders. He reached down and pulled the leg band of her bikinis to the side, his fingers spread her open, and he slid in. He pressed deep, and slowly filled her completely, deeper and deeper, pressing, moving just slightly, a slow rocking motion. They kissed more passionately, both clenching their muscles, feeling each other pulsing, pressed closer and closer together, filling, accepting. Her body stiffened, legs clenched, release, and he collapsed forward down on top of her, still kissing her mouth fully. His fingers were buried in her hair as she was shook, stiffened, and clenched; hips rising, pushing up. Then easing, and relaxed, but being still, fully engaged, connected, breathing in unison.

He wrapped his arms around her waist, and he shifted and rolled them onto their sides, arms and legs moving and disengaging slightly. She rolled over to her other side, with her back to him and her head resting on his arm. She shifted and pushed hard back, spooned against him, and pulled his other arm over and around her, and tucked it between her breasts, and held it firmly in place, hugging it. She was still bound at the ankles, blindfold still in place. He buried his nose and mouth into her hair and neck. He nuzzled and kissed her softly, tenderly biting into her neck and shoulder, enough to apply pressure, more for presence/comfort than challenge, and she drifted off to sleep. Listening to her soft breathing and sleeping sounds, he drifted off too.

He awoke to the light of the sun rise shining visible around the edges of the curtains and blinds, feeling very relaxed, deeply sleepy. He slowly and gently disentangled himself, kissed the back of her neck, between her shoulder blades, ran his fingers down the length of her backbone, caressed her hip and bottom, and carefully moved himself out of bed.

He walked over to the chair, pulled on his clothes, picked up his jacket and walked out of the room, down the hall, across the living room and out the front door, locking it behind him.

And then, much later, one Sunday afternoon . . .

On a Bed, Sleeping

The Consensual Stalker

part 1

second -

He walked into the room, sat in the large overstuffed chair in the corner, and looked all around. Everything seemed exactly as it was previously, a place for everything and everything in its place. The night stands were the same, the bedspread, sheets, the furniture, everything looked the same. He looked at the clock projection again, and then his watch, and smiled, perfectly in sync.

He walked over to the left side of the bed and looked down at her. She was sleeping curled in a nearly fetal position, on her right side, facing him, knees pulled up, back curved, and hands down between her thighs. She was sleeping very close to the left side of the bed, not in the middle like before. He noticed with a smile that she had a scarf twisted loosely, but effectively around her wrists. It was an instruction he had issued several times and she had said she complied, but this was the first time he was actually seeing how she looked bound that way, and he found it stimulating in a strangely satisfying, "Mine", sort of way.

She was wearing a pair of bikini panties similar to last time, and again, her breasts were bare. Last time she had been laying flat down on her stomach, but this time, they were squeezed between her upper arms. Her ample breasts appeared even larger being contained in that way and her nipples were semi erect. Not hard and prominent as they were when she was aroused, but there was clear definition and swelling up from her aureoles. Her hair was tousled about her head, neck and shoulders, and it appeared to be longer. Obviously she was letting it grow longer; another "suggestion" he had made.

As he stood there, he looked around at the bed and night stand, the armoire and then at the headboard. In the dim moonlight, he noticed something at the center of the headboard, at the top edge. He leaned closer and saw that a stick pin was holding the ribbon and bow that he had fashioned in her hair the last time he visited. He reached down for the prescription bottle on the night stand and could feel it was full, and new, compared to the bottle that had been there last time. It suggested that she was using this sleeping aid on a regular, perhaps even on a nightly basis. He leaned in close, wiped her forehead and temple, hair smoothed out of your face, and looked at her eyes, looking for any sign that she might actually be partially awake.

Since she was sleeping so close to the edge of the bed, and facing in his direction, he gently settled himself on the edge of the bed, almost up against the front of her thighs, rather than down further where he might normally have seated himself, closer to her legs, her thighs and her bottom. As he sat there, lightly brushing her hair out of her face, suddenly he was startled and nearly jumped up. She abruptly stirred and shifted, she pulled her arms up and out, and placed her forearm on top of his thigh, her bound wrists hooked over his knee. She stretched out and put her head onto her arm, resting the side of her face and her temple directly against the side of his knee. Her position also pressed her breast and nipple hard against the side of his leg. This would not have bothered him much, but being spring time, with warmer weather, he had worn a pair of baggy surfer style shorts, and her warm soft flesh was pressed up against his bare leg. He was excited by the feel of her skin against his.
.
He sat there mesmerized by the feel of her breast pressing into his thigh, and the surges of warm air puffing through the hair on the back of his thigh as she breathed. As he sat there, he lightly touched her hair, decided that rather than try to move her, or slide himself out from under her embrace, he would just wait a while until she changed position again. The next time she rustled he would be able to slide his leg down off the edge of the bed as she was shifting around and extricate himself. He was in no hurry to go, and while this predicament was impeding his plans for the visit, he was very much enjoying his entrapment.

Again, like the last visit his attention was drawn to that spot near her bottom, that spot where her buttock turned to her thigh. He'd always had a fondness for that shape of her body, and the contour of her bottom. He reached over and placed the palm of his hand fully on the upper part of the back of her thigh, feeling the warmth and softness of her skin, and gently slipped the tips of a couple fingers up under the leg band of her panties. Just as he was about to move his hand further down in between and inside her thighs she started to stir again, he froze in place. She rolled toward the center of the bed, nearly on her back and drug her bound wrists across his thigh and back onto the mattress. As she moved, he pulled back his arm, and hand fell to the mattress. She pushed her hands up under her pillow, rolled back over and put her cheek on the pillow on top of her hands. She twisted her torso so she was once again nearly flat on her stomach. He sat still, waiting to see if she had settled, looking up and down the length of her lovely body, at her smooth skin and her well toned muscles. She seemed to be back sleeping soundly and settled again.

He walked over to his jacket, reached into the pocket and took out the length of soft cotton rope he had brought with him. He returned to the bed, walked down to the foot, where her ankles were lying side by side and lightly placed the center of the rope over her left ankle. He then took the tag end and passed it under her ankle, pulling up most of the slack and then made a figure eight cross over between her ankles. He wrapped the each end of the rope twice around her right ankle, made a second figure eight crisscross back to her left ankle, once around again and then between her ankles tied a double knot with the small bits of rope left. It was effectively fashioned in the style of a loose hobble. Clearly she had taken the sleeping pills again tonight, or all of the fussing with her feet and ankles would surely have woken her up. He stood back, admiring his handiwork and watched her breathing, listening to her slight snoring sound and looked up and smiled again at the ribbon on the headboard.

He walked over to the chair, picked up his jacket and walked out of the room, down the hall, across the living room and out the front door, locking it behind him.

As he drove off, he said out loud to himself, "Third time is a charm."
. . . continued . . .

In a Bedroom, Sleeping

The Consensual Stalker

first -
He walked into the room, sat in the large overstuffed chair in the corner, and looked all around. There was the bathroom door off to the right, and on the opposite wall, the closet door, and in between a large armoire that held some folded clothes and a television set. He thought, what an interesting place to conceal a small camera. And on the wall opposite, there was a queen size bed, with a nightstand on either side, each with a lamp, and one with a clock that shines the time in a circle on the ceiling:

12:55 A

Sunday

He looked at his watch, and noticed a difference, pulled out the stem and adjusted it to 12:57, centered the second hand at zero, and waited for 12:57 to appear on the ceiling, then pushed the stem back in; there, perfect.

He got up and walked over to the bed, and looked at the items on the far night stand, just the lamp, the clock, a couple of magazines and a paperback book. On the near night stand was the matching lamp, a cell phone, a glass of water and a prescription bottle. He picked up the bottle and read the label, Dalmane, Take as needed for sleep.

She was sound asleep, making a soft slow breathing sound, not quite a snore. She laid flat face down, arms wrapped around her pillow, head resting on her left cheek, her hair spread across her cheek, her forehead, her neck and shoulders. Her right leg was pulled up and out, bent at the knee. She was wearing a pair of bikini panties, nothing else. He put his hand on the headboard, and leaned over looking down at her, she seemed to have the slightest smile on her face, but was definitely deep in sleep.

With his free hand he began to ever so lightly trace one fingertip across her shoulders, and down across her biceps, over her elbow and down her forearm to her wrist. Then he ran the fingertip slowly back up her arm, across her shoulders and down the other arm. She did not stir or seem to sense his touch in any way. He wondered if she was that sound a sleeper, or if the sleeping pill had dulled her senses. He ran his fingertip back up her arm, to her shoulders and ran it up and down her neck, at the back first, then up the sides and back, and still there was no reaction.

Sitting down on the edge of the bed, he put two fingers at the base of her neck, and begin tracing then down either side of her backbone, circling it, over, back and forth, and then down to the next bone, pressing ever so slightly, a tender teasing touch. He continued working down each vertebrae, down to the curve of the small of her back, and then back up the rising slope toward her buttocks, lightly massaging her skin, up and down and then back up, an inch or so at a time. When he reached the waist band of her panties, he turned his hand and pushed the fingers under the waistband spreading her cheeks apart just slightly as his fingers slide deeper and deeper into the cleft. The waistband slipped up his fingers and onto the back of his hand, and he stopped. With his fingers resting between her cheeks, he suddenly considered how much he had touched her, with absolutely no response, what so ever.

He stopped and was very still for a moment, not moving his hand, listening for her breathing. It was still soft and steady, calm and nearly that same soft snoring sound. He slowly began to reverse his movement and trace his two fingers back up her spine, back toward her neck. When his fingers reached the base of her neck, he massaged her neck at her hairline, up the sides and back down to her shoulders, still, no reaction. He lifted his hand off of her skin and just sat, looking at her back heave and settle slowly as she slept, undisturbed. He was tempted to jostle her and awaken her, but decided better of it, thinking that he ought to leave soon.

He looked over her body, so lovely and calm, so relaxed in her sleep. His gaze went to the back of the thigh of her bent leg, and that spot where her buttock turned to her thigh. He reached over and placed the palm of his hand fully on the upper part of the back of her thigh, feeling the warmth and softness of her skin, it aroused him to touch her so intimately. He thought better of it, removed his hand, and stood up, looking up and down the length of her lovely nearly naked body, her smooth skin and her well toned muscles.

He moved back to the headboard, braced himself and leaned over again, and looked down at her face, she still had that same partial smile, partially covered by her tousled hair. With the fingers of his free hand he gently combed her hair back, off of her face, up over the side of her head and tucked as much as he could behind the back of her ear. He could now clearly see her face and the side of her neck. He walked over to his jacket, reached into the pocket and took out the length of ribbon he had brought with him. He returned to the side of the bed, combed more of her hair back into the semblance of pony tail, and tied the ribbon around the gathered strands of hair, and then fashioned a bow.

He walked over to the chair, picked up his jacket and walked out of the room, down the hall, across the living room and out the front door, locking it behind him.
. . . continued . . .

Bring Your Stalker to Work Day

The Consensual Stalker

"Designed to be more than a day camp, the Bring Your Stalker to Work Day program goes beyond the average “shadow” an adult. This will provide your stalker an opportunity to share how they envision your future and begin steps toward their end goals. We have designed the day in a hands-on and interactive manner that’s key to their achieving success. Each year, development of new interactive activities assists us in taking stalkers to the future they dream of."

I had followed her to work on several occasions, and was now familiar with her morning routine. She would pull into the parking garage, emerge and walk several blocks to the office building, and board the elevator. A very consistent routine, little variation in time or pattern. Most mornings she would talk on the phone and/or send text messages, juggling books and folders, and a purse and tote bag. For the past couple days I had boarded the elevator with her and selected the top floor, noting which floor was hers when she left the elevator.

I rode up two floors further, got off the elevator and took the stairs two flights down. I surveyed the hallways and corridors, and peeked into office areas where doors were open or ajar, and finally found her. I noted that her office space was a small odd shaped room and appeared to contain just two desks, hers off to the right, and a older man was at the desk to the left. One whole wall of the office was outside windows, but the door was solid, with no glass security panel. Once the door was closed, there was no way for intruders or visitors to see if any one was in. I had noticed that the older man seemed to be away from the office this week. Today would be different . . .
.

Today I watched her arrive at work and head into her building. I waited about ten minutes and boarded the elevator, went one extra floor up, walked back down one flight and down the corridor. As usual, the door was open and slightly ajar. I glanced through the opening and saw her busying herself with her computer, putting on headphones, swaying to some music and sipping a cup of coffee. I pushed the door open just slightly more . . . the door moved about a foot, with no noise, or apparent commotion. As I looked around the edge, she seemed oblivious to the movement, so I slowly pushed the door the rest of the way open, up against the cabinet behind it, and stepped back just to be sure.

After a few moments, I stepped into the doorway, paused, and them stepped into the room. No reaction, so I quietly swung the door closed and stepped up behind her, still nothing. I moved slightly to the right when she swung her chair to the left to open a drawer, but still there was no recognition of any presence in the room, or directly behind her. As she settled back to her workstation she seemed to catch a reflection in the window or her computer screen, I knelt down on one knee behind her and her chair as she glanced around, and then shrugged.
.

I stood back up, leaned forward, and simultaneously pulled her glasses and headphones off with one hand and placed the other hand over her eyes. Then I quickly moved the first hand, covered her mouth, and whispered into her ear, "It is me, just relax." I held her as stationary as possible as she struggled, until the glow of recognition settled over her. Even as she struggled I moved my hand from her mouth, onto her throat, up under her chin, tilted her head back and placed my mouth over hers. I held the kiss, long, longer, I had forgotten how wonderfully soft and warm and pliable her lips were, how her kiss felt and the way she moved, both her jaw and her tongue. I lifted momentarily and repositioned my mouth onto hers again, and savored the sound of her breathing through her nostrils and the swelling of her breasts as she struggled for air. I lifted my mouth slightly so we could both breath through the corners of our mouths without ending this prolonged kiss.

Even as I sucked air out of her lungs, pumped it back in, I was drawn to the pulse of her breathing through the expansion and contraction of her chest, and the swelling of her wonderfully full breasts. I was captivated by the sight of her hardening nipples, pressing through her shirt and sweater, and presumably even her bra beneath them. I reached down and took a grip on one nipple through all of that clothing and pinched tightly, and felt her gasp for air, nearly sucking my breath right out of my mouth this time. I continued to twist and pull, and elicited the most wonderful, guttural groan from deep in her throat, followed by a soft humming sound. I moved my hand and tore open the top two buttons of her shirt so that the opening matched the contour of her v-neck sweater.
.
As I placed my palm on her upper chest I could feel her warm skin, and her breathing, and as my hand slid inside her shirt, I could feel her heart beating and her long deep breaths. Once again heard that guttural growl, and I detected a slight chuckle, and her mouth was moving as if she were trying to say something. I shoved my hand down inside her shirt, into the cup of her bra, forcing my fingers across her flesh, and took a solid grip on her right breast, pinching and mashing, squeezing and massaging roughly. She squirmed and wiggled in her chair, not trying to escape so much as adjust to the excitement and arousal my continued groping of her breast was provoking.

I lifted my mouth from hers, trailing my tongue across hers, teasing her lips. I continued to hold my hand over her eyes, pulled my hand out of her bra, and said, "Reach down and release the ergo-control so that the back of the chair tilts back."

"What?" she said.

"Release the chair backrest."

She nodded her understanding, and dropped her arms down between the armrests and the seat cushion, and fumbled with the control levers. Suddenly she found the right paddle and the seat back dropped to a 45 degree angle, startling us both. "Close your eyes, tight." She did. I leaned back down and kissed her forehead, her temples, her closed eyes, the sides of her nose, one cheek and then the other, then one last time, her mouth, a slow, tender, full lip kiss.

Now she was laid out with her head fully back, tilted over the edge of the seat back, almost dangling back. My thumb on her chin pushed her lower jaw down and my palm pressed her forehead down and back, forcing her mouth open further. Her body stiffened as she heard the sound of my zipper, and I stepped forward . . .

and then, at her home . . .

Moving with Force

Read enough blogs, documenting relationships ranging from the most extreme M/s owners, to the sweetest Daddy/little girl connections, and you begin to see the wide range of methods and techniques used to move things along, particularly the degree of influence imparted by the dominant member of the relationship. This is particularly true of training techniques but in many instances actually apply to the entire conduct of the relationship, influencing the entire interaction. It becomes apparent when something goes wrong, when things are off track and corrective action needs to be taken.

The previous post, force, was an attempt to put the idea out there and clarify my thinking, and engage with a few readers from their reaction to that small offering. It came to me during this process that control = force. I had always thought of force as a S&M practice, and overlooked the subtle but effective use of force in all methods of control. The concept of force runs the gambit of techniques employed: force, enforce, reinforce and reinforcement, each an exertion of the dominants will and dominion, over the behavior of the submissive but with radically varying degrees of application. I think a large degree of that is implied by the kind of connection that is present between the parties involved. It is also clear that some aspects of all four categorizations are likely employed at one time or another in nearly all relationships.

Force:
a powerful effect or influence; to cause to do through pressure or necessity, by physical, moral or intellectual means, coerce.
I think the strictest Master/slave relationship involves the potential for the greater degree of pure force - a powerful effect or influence; where the Master is likely to cause things to be done through pressure or necessity, by physical, moral or intellectual means, by applying coercion.

This may well include the routine application of moving a girl along, literally, physically, by grabbing hands full of her hair or tightly gripping her collar and literally dragging her to where she needs to go. It may likely not involve any degree of intellectual instruction at all, but rather just the absolute application of physical force. Even routinely grabbing her and pulling her along, come this way, follow along, and she will, because she is yours, and trusts you or fears you. So, you could MAKE the sub do something through force.

This might include prolonged restraint, caging, physical restrictions, and whippings and beating, real and earnest applications of force.

Enforce:
ensure observance of rules; compel to behave in a certain way - to keep up, impose or bring into effect something, not necessarily by force.
When you talk about how your girl might feel about being restricted, and she thinks the control might be interesting, "really like the idea of somehow being controlled."

You set rules for her, that provide direction and guidance but at other times she has to walk the path, with you right behind her, offering words of encouragement, or correction or perspective, "if you do this or that, here is what will happen". Or, provide a good environment in which she can do something that one time, and then enforce the repetition of the behavior.

Consider the idea of a control that insists, rather than restricts? So many times, we Doms/Tops implement directives that take away something desired, but what about the idea of requiring something that is not a burning desire? An example might be orgasm control, which is often exercised as orgasm denial or limitation, but can also be a rule that insists on orgasms.

This might occasionally blend in some of the rougher, dragging approach, with an ebb and flow, harsh, aggressive at times, friendly, slow and smooth at other times.

Reinforce:
to strengthen, especially by addition or augmentation; to emphasize or review; to encourage a behavior or idea through repeated stimulus.
There are times when the dominant backs off, giving a certain degree of slack to see how well the lesson has been learned. But he may still be nudging with a slight tap or push for the left or the right, correcting the course, needing to watch, pay attention, but not always intervening, teach her the way for herself, with guidance. This involves observing behavior, and reinforcing the positive actions while criticizing but not necessarily punishing the missteps. Ultimately, submission is what the girl gives, not what the dominant takes.

Reinforcement:
a process in which a behavior is strengthened; increasing the probability that a response will occur by either presenting a contingent positive event or removing a negative event.
Where do you want to go? What do you want to change? How can my guidance, dominance, and reinforcement be applied to your life in such a way that you accomplish your goals, and then set about to do it, with subtle and not so subtle reminders, go do it "now".

Some times you might even let go so fully that she doesn't even feel the control any more, or in fact she feels the absence of the control, the looseness, at odds, at wits end. Once having had the comfort and safety and assurance of guidance and control, what does it feel like to have that taken away, quite nearly the complete opposite of force, the complete removal of influence, other than presence, reinforcement of the feeling and idea of control rather than cranking down the control.

Or it might include setting up ongoing situations where doing that thing brings her peace and contentment and rather than feeling forced, she feels embraced and wants to do it of her own volition and to please. This kind of commitment to purpose is at the heart of submission, it is not compliance by force, but simply reinforcement of her dedication to purpose. It might also include companioning, guiding her along as she deals with an issue. Or, slowly and methodically moving her forward, clearing the path of obstacles, hers and the worlds, like curling?


It is always interesting to read blogs and see what kinds of force are employed, or not to correct misbehavior or a failure to follow rules. It is just as common to read about overly lax responses as it is to read about overly forceful actions.

Bedtime Baby

You, sitting at the foot of the bed, knees bent over the edge, legs apart.

Me, standing with my shins against the end of the bed, between your thighs, combing my hands and fingers through your hair, savoring the view of your wonderful body.

You, squeezing your thighs hard against the outside of my legs, holding them, caressing me, rubbing the veined underside, watching it grow and stiffen, licking your lips.

Me, holding your head and tilting it back, straining your neck, kissing your forehead, temples, eyebrows, eyes, left side of your nose, right side, back and forth from one cheek to the other, then fully over your mouth, tender, slow, firm lip kisses.

You, moaning, humming, smiling, leaning your head back, pulling away from my kiss, pulling your head from side to side, sneaking down under my chin to look at the handiwork of your hands. Grasping me, guiding me up to your mouth, teasing between your lips, running your tongue along the underside.

Me, pulling your head closer, moving slowly in and out, rubbing against the insides of your mouth, moving my hands to your jaw, pushing it down to reduce the tightness, opening your mouth more, encouraging you to moisten, lick and coat me with your saliva.

You, looking up into my eyes, looking down over you. Cupping your hands under your breasts, lifting them up, offering them, squeezing them together, wrapping them around me, all wet from your mouth, and so hard.

Me, grasping a nipple in each hand, pulling, twisting, lifting, pinching. Stepping back and kneeling down at the edge of the bed, fronts of my thighs up against the end of the mattress, resting on the surface of the mattress. Wrapping my hands around the small of your back and pulling you forward, moving your bottom forward up the edge of the bed.

You, grasping hold of me and guiding me into you, wet, slick, as you are pulled closer and closer, opening your legs wider to accept my hips more comfortably between your thighs.

Me, taking hold of your wrists and leaning, guiding you back, pushing you to lay down flat on the bed. Pushing your arms down against the mattress and pulling you harder toward me, slipping deeper inside, my upward curve tickling that hot inner spot.

You, rocking back and forth with the pull and push of my hands on your wrists, working your muscles, massaging me inside you, bringing me closer and closer. Sweating, huffing, deep breathing, humming.

Me, releasing your wrists and guiding your hands down in between us, encouraging your fingers to dance and play with your swollen button, pushing them down deeper and deeper. Hands tight on your hips, pulling your closer and closer, shoving deeper and deeper. Legs clenched, solid stiff, releasing into you. collapsing forward down on top of you, kissing your breasts.

You, shaking, stiffening, clenching, hands deep down, hips rising, pushing up, shaping our angles. Fingers buried in my hair, gripping and caressing.

Us, coming together, right now.

force

force - a powerful effect or influence; to cause to do through pressure or necessity, by physical, moral or intellectual means, coerce.

enforce - ensure observance of rules; compel to behave in a certain way - to keep up, impose or bring into effect something, not necessarily by force.

reinforce - to strengthen, especially by addition or augmentation; to emphasize or review; to encourage a behavior or idea through repeated stimulus.

reinforcement - a process in which a behavior is strengthened; increasing the probability that a response will occur by either presenting a contingent positive event or removing a negative event.

a premise . . . continued . . .