Tag Archives: fantasy

The Gauntlet-men in Pain

It’s easy to find pictures that objectify female form, both in the ‘vanilla’ world and the kinky. That is why I constantly look out for other images. Especially those which objectify male suffering. I still find it very hard to sexualize non-consentual suffering, simply because it is often not erotic. But still, I’ve changed quite a bit and find more and more imagery thats hotter than hot.

Like this clip for example:

An undressed James Bond, exposed and vulnerable and in actual pain, struggling to keep the villain at bay, challenging him still. And some CBT have never hurt anyone before.

But this is a clip that I’m even more interested in. Because there is so many layers to it.

There is the cocky individual, trying to desert from the British Army, only to get caught out, having to enrol in another army. Suitable punishment follows, and as he walks through the gauntlet, slowly and controlled, but in pain. And this is a kink of mine, slow paces that forces the objet du désir to keep control over him or herself. Barry London is an interesting movie all in all, but this was definetly the highlight for me.

But all in all, I’m not feeling very toppy at all at the moment. The only thing I’m really longing for is to speak to a certain someone and have someone with rope bundle me up and move my mind and body. But maybe you will find something that is hot with both of these clips, at least I did.


Vac-bed, hands and Sybian vs the Hitachi

Ahh, the lovely Ladies Who…

We have met up before, and once again we managed to raise mayhem, but this time we remained in the London area and met up for a nice brunch before we got started.

The thing was that after a couple of intense revision weeks, I was in deep need of letting go and not control a thing. Which is where the vac-bed came into the picture. As I crawled in (such a weird feeling to crawl inside a sheet!) and attached the mouthpiece, the brightdaylight disappeared and my body and mind went in to that very weird, almost sedated mindset of bliss. As the air was sucked out, it felt like I was floating in cool, dark waters, halting the busy thoughts but still anticipating waves or currents. And they came. First in the shape of a hand touching. Then, one more hand. Then; pinches, small slaps, nipples tweaked and air-supply restricted. Hands, many more hands, the feeling of a body lying on top of me. Being held tightly, held down, ‘crushed’ or manipulated all lies within the realms of different types of bondage, and this vac-bed gave touch a whole new dimension. A vibrator, held against my crotch, I’m trying to meet it but sheets are still preventing some movement and so does the hands holding my wrists. Every cell of my body is feeling every touch, and I’ve left the sedated far-away floating, now instead being aware of every second, hearing the giggles of the Ladies. I’ve since long fantasized about this, imagining myself accessible and fondled, by hands and bodies and mind, everyone of them touching me differently. I did some guessing work, and thought I recognized the minds behind the touches, but it really was not what was important. Instead skin was just like the sheets of the vac-bed. Skin to be touched like the sheets were touched.
Later that day I also had a go at the famous Sybian. It left me a little perplexed. While it is lovely to see a sex-machine that is not designed to penetrate someone in 150 km/hour and actually puts some focus on the rest of the female bits, my allegiance still is with the Hitachi. There is a couple of reasons. First of all; the positioning is quite wrong for me, the whole straddling things is difficult. Either, all the weight is on the legs or the pelvic bone, to hold you in place. Many of us who tried it used a footstool to rest out upper bodies on, to make it more comfortable. But for me it is almost impossible to come standing up, and still very hard while sitting like that. Second of all, the vibrations, which are scary strong and very, very loud, makes you feel like you are humping a motorbike. My brain felt a bit like it turned in to milkshake. The Sybian definitely demands some technique and is probably the hottest when it is forced, but I must admit I had a quite nice orgasm. It was easy to handle technically, also had a lot of attachments (sadly ‘flesh-coloured’ and many quite scary) and surprisingly small. But I am a Hitachi-girl at heart in the end.


Tidbits-tentacle pr0n and machine-fuckery

UPDATE:
Due to this case has come to my attention, I will edit this post so no misunderstanding will come from it. First of all, this is a post about sexual fantasy, as well as performance art. Anyone else who consider it to be something else is a nutcase.

So, my exams are almost over, but I’ve still got procrastination to do.

What do you know of the history of fetishes?How old exactly is the wish to be flogged or the fetishization of feet?
Take a look at this and you might be surprised.
My favorite is the tentacles.

I think I can look at that picture and never get bored of it. It might sound odd, and I am quite terrified of my fascination. A couple of weeks ago there was a bondage performance at **** and **** was tied up, suspended and flogged with large squids, covered in color. It was an intense performance,but I was left somehow questioning it. All of the images I’ve seen so far with squids and octopus pr0n, have been with them being alive and active, engaging sexually with another body. The squids used in the performance were dead bodies, and so some of the fascination was removed.There was still the tactility of it, the shine and the gore, but many of the possibilities of the multiple legs were gone, as they were dead.
All in all though I’m really fascinated, because this really is on the border of fascination, at least if one considers the bestiality issue. The fantasy of sex with a tentacle-creature somehow transcend the usual notion of bestiality, or does it really? Is that something that we have made up in our heads, yet again? There is strong cultural connotations here, but we also have the mythical creatures of Medusa and her hair. Some more here for your viewing pleasure:


This
version of tentacle-pr0n is the funniest one though.

One more link before I have to dig deep down in to sociological theory.
This one is a list a couple of ‘impractical’ fetishes and while I can agree with some, and laugh at some other, what caught my attention this time, was the technosexuality/technophiliac. While everyone who knows me pretty much know I shag a lot of nerds (can’t help it) I am actually not that in to technology or even computers for that matter. But I always loved Bjork’s video:

And I can’t help finding the imagery so fucking hot. It is the same fascination that I hold of the concept of cyborgs, the merging of human and ‘machine’ as parts of each other. But then again, there is the concept of sex-dolls, those machines who are made in to looking exactly like a human woman, and even respond to touch, etc. This concept freaks me out, not because of it’s nature, but from where those who are engaging in this type of research and what kind of femininity they invent.

In any case, soon exams are over and I can breathe a bit. Strange that I keep on writing so much when I know I have exams. I think it is called procrastination.


The Basement Body

The bus is moving and I want to moan out loud. His smile is barely visible but he know as well as I do that it takes a certain amount of self-discipline to not yell out loud. Under my coat small wires lead down in my panties, thin wires attached to small sticky notes of paper. It may seem completely innocent, but it is everything but innocent. He sits next to me, stroking my hair with one of his hands, the other he keeps in his pocket. The double-decker keeps on moving like only double-deckers in London move, with harsh jumps forward and twitchy stops. Like a small animal that is not sure of weather to move forward or to stay in the same spot. I know what the little device in his pocket looks like, imagine a electronical key for a car. But the reason why it rests perfectly between his fingers is not because that he is a proud owner of a Volvo or a Toyota, it is because of the electric impulses it controls. Small, battery-driven electrical impulses shoot out from the little black box attached to the belt of my trousers, hidden under my leatherjacket.  The goal for these impulses is my cunt. Or rather the lips of my cunt, close, close to my clit. A deep, tickling massage that by time intensifies. I try to concentrate on looking at London but the view is pretty uninteresting. And I don’t want to meet his eyes. His eyes that undress me in his mind.

What are you thinking about?

How come you make me want to much. And I think about how it is weird that it is still so bright outside, the sun is still shining although it is seven o’clock.

It’ll the nice going to Club Fukk. Cool and nice. Don’t forget to take care of my stuff in the wardrobe. I’ll take care of the rest.

Understood

He laughs, scratches me in the neck and place a light kiss on my cheek. He is dressed in black, well cut trousers, a white shirt and a jacket. The tie is in the bag, the big black bag.
We are headed towards a club were the heat comes from bodies that press against eachother, not from the sun. We know that everything we might need can be found there, close friends, fuck buddies, the possibility of voyeurism and exhibitionism. Condoms, latexgloves and lube. But we want more. I want more. I want to feel hands pressing against my skin and I want adrenaline. That is where the big, heavy, black bag comes in to the picture. The content of this bag is one that only he knows about. That is how we do it. That is how we always do it.

This is our stop
I’m wearing what I was asked to wear. A simple, white tanktop, a sportsbra and military-green cargo pants. A leatherjacket and sunglasses together with my darkbrown hair in a braid, a leatherbracelet. I like walking through the neighborhood with him, passing a thai-restaurant but I am hungry for something else. He presses down the button on the little device in his pocket, and as we pass alleyway after alleyway I silently moan and ask him to either Stop or fuck me here and now among the rubbish.

Not yet. Get a grip of yourself.

There is a chilling tone in his voice that I am not prepared for. It showers me with a cold feeling, silences me trying to get attention and then we arrive to the club, not a minute too late.
As we walk through the door a welcoming and familiar voice greets us. The warm hugs happen all while still having the electrics pounding the lips of my cunt.
I take care of all the items that are going in to the cloak room.  I can hear their voices while doing this, and fragments of their discussion makes me curious.
…just wanted to tell you, so there is no uncomfortable misunderstandings.

That is very appreciated, but there should really be no problems.

Have fun!
As he walks over to me, I can’t help but ask.
What was that about?

This

In the same split second I’m pushed against the uneven stonewall, arms locked behind my back. A cloth is pulled over my head, an in that moment I am the willing victim, trapped, the one who want to run away but still stay. I’m pushed ahead of him, against a wall that proves to be a door, stumbling along. My memory tells me that we are inside the club now, going in the direction of the dancefloor. The world looks different from under the cloth with nothing to orientate myself with. Automatically I stop to try to figure out my position, but he continues pushing me ahead, pushing me away from the dancefloor and then one more wall against my cheek. Uneven, cold and slightly sticky. His fingers slowly move inside me while he whispers to me that I should only speak if asked. And he will ask me only about the last 24 hours. And I will tell him everything.

So, it started to happen, the dangerous, all of those things we have talked so much about. And I know that I only have to express the words
‘I’ve only slept and nothing else’  and it will all stop. But I want to go there, become challenged, used, scared, cum hard and long. And I want to use lust with him. All that he can give, all that he want to give.

You can’t go anywhere. You can’t anything else but what I tell you and right now I want you to tell me everything. There is no other way to make this stop.

First I don’t believe him. Test him. His grip around my wrists relaxes slightly when we move through the club and I give it a try. Or my legs try to run, but the cloth over my head and my arms and hands behind my back makes it harder than I thought.
Two seconds later and then I can feel his body again, gripping and pushing me down on the floor.

Was that you trying to escape? Was that really you trying to escape from all this? You probably have to try harder than that. Have you not realized you are mine? That you are mine and you are going to tell me everything. If your vocabulary feels restriced I got things here that can help you. I got water, a knife, electricity, a gun and of course my hands. Amongst many other things. Tell me all about every step you took, all your slutty thoughts, everyone you spoke to, what you said, how often you touched yourself. If you do good I might even reward you, but if you keep information from me I have no other choice than to use those resources that I got at hand. And I might already have to use some of those in other to make you realize that I am serious

And then I can feel the cold metal. It starts with metallcuffs around my ankles, then my wrists. And then the chains, heavy and icing cold, pulled between the cuffs, force me into a sitting fetus-position, making my back ache. He keeps me there, can feel his eyes crawling over my body.
He lies me down on the side, the concrete floor feels sticky and the grovel press in to my skin, almost in search of where it hurts the most.

You don’t think I’m serious do you? That I can’t beat you until you are a wet heap of blood and then leave you here? Or is it water that you want? Something to drink, something that will help you loose that tongue and start to speak.
And that is something I really want. Water. To get the cloth off my head and get away the dry sensation and to be able to breathe. I nod and start to try to lift my head but instead I feel water running down my face, slowly drenching the cloth that start to try to find its way into my nose and mouth. I try to move, change how the cloth falls over my face but then he firmly press my head down. And then, I just try to adapt, to control my breathing trough the wet fabric and my whole body aches, and my cunt is pulsating and I feel the beat of my heart, not trying to give anything away.

In my own world, I hardly notice when he first grips me, and then push me over on to my back. The wet concrete floor is cold and again his boot is pressing against me, against my chest and then his hands around my throat.
I can strangle you right here and now. But you are not saying anything. Is that because you are stupid and don’t realize that you can get away from all of this?

The wet clothes are sticky against my skin and the small stones dig their way deep into my shoulderblades.  The chains are still there, but not as tight. I can move now but know what happened last time I tried to move.
His boot is removed from my chest and the cloth is pulled off from my face. A torch light up in my face, making me blind, disorientates and distorts all shadows. A faceslap and I have to breathe to be able to remain in a upright position.
These are in the way. You wear your clothes like armour. Sit still, don’t move a millimeter.
I hear a click and a cold blade. A knife opens the tank top, cutting it slowly while the torch still lights up my face, blinding.  He rips the top off, then cut my sports-bra,  grabbing each breast and clamp them, clamps that are connected with the little evil black box, I know because the my breasts start to pulsate.
Faceslaps and now my eyes are watering, tears streaming down my red, sore cheeks. But I don’t say anything. When he starts to hit my back with the palm of his hands I can also somewhere in those hits feel gentler strokes. Maybe it’s my imagination or maybe he actually strokes me. It is a fact that confuses me even more, and the hot flashes from his beating hands travels over my back in the speed of light.  But the rush that follows make me strong, convinced of how strong I can be in my helplessness. I can only give him what I want to give, and I feed on what he wants to give me.
Time pass, time that is relative. The intensity of the electricity is boosted, but I can’t pay attention to that when he continues to beat me. Instead I scream, first time out loud and guttural. I yell something about that I want him to stop, but he does not stop. Instead he lies me down, on the ground, I can feel his sweat, locate exactly where his body is for the first time; I can  feel him and his heartbeats next to me.
You will be free as son as you tell me what I want to hear. You remember it all and you know what I want to hear, is that not true, yes? Answer me.
My head nods, but I don’t say anything. I say nothing.
That was what I thought

He pulls me up on the knees. Heavy arms weighed down by chains. My head drop and I am as heavy in my body as I am light.  A body heavy as a thousand tons but yet a body light as a feather. He grips my plaited hair, turn my face towards him and give my forehead a brief, light kiss. And in that moment I come.

Heavy as a thousand tons but still a body light as a feather.

I say nothing, shakes, but not because I’m cold but because of the adrenaline. I have said nothing.


In chains

Ve writes:

Sometimes, I can feel The Ethical Hedonist’s eyes on me. Even if he is not there. Even if we are miles away from each other. I think about what could be, in that exact moment, and what kind of breathing I would be doing. Maybe laced up in a corset, feeling a correction that has been made by strong boning and criss-cross lacing. Maybe feeling the rubber, the second skin rubber that is giving everything and nothing away. Probably, my breathing is a bit different from the one I usually do. Things, and people can have that effect on me, making the clit pound, heart beating life and nerve-endings becoming hypersensitive.
He can stroke the front of my body with hard hands, almost playing over my chest and ribs.
Don’t move or I’ll rip your throat’


And for the first time, I really try hard to obey him when he tells me I am not allowed to cum. Of course I fail. I cum and it is good being his cum-whore.I am not good girl, I am a bad boi, a real one of those that cannot be controlled, one who will never give up my cumming for anyone.

Sometimes, we just don’t have time to play. We fuck a lot, but the actual playing is sometimes trickier to get into life. We have a deal “Don’t make any plans”. It has worked so far. And I know I can always speak to Daddy.

His little boi is growing.  It is not a weird thing anymore, crawl up in a ball at his hairy chest, feeling him stroking my body and being safe. Feeling him stroke my cock and learning me to cum hard.
There has not been any clubbing for a while, much of the same reasons as the blogging has been fairly infrequent.
Being a student, trying to study, be horny, social and balanced is… Tricky to say at least. Having a normal social life and take care of myself is often a challenge, and then add academia to that. I’ve written before about stress –management. At some point I almost wanted to become academia-dommed. Or not. Think about it.

“Boi-whore, write your first draft until tomorrow”

No. Instead I’ve been fantasizing:

We have just paid the entrance to Club Fukk and I’ve been ordered to take down the clothes and sort out the cloakroom-hassle. One of the bags is heavier than usual. Earlier he said it was because he wanted to go back to mine afterwards and stay the whole weekend. I don’t believe him.

“…just wanted to tell you, so there is no misunderstandings….”
“That’s very appreciated, there should not be any problems though…Have fun!”


Standing a in the end of the staircase I can’t hear everything The Ethical Hedonist and the clubowner discuss, except for a small fragment. It makes me curious, as always.

His smile is devious when he comes towards me, slowly walking down the stairs.

‘What was what about?’

‘This’

Seconds after, I am pushed against the wall, face pressed against the uneven surface, arms locked behind my back, clicking metal wristcuffs* on my wrists, everything in one single, smooth move.  A white pillowcase is pulled over my head. He picks up the bag he instructed me to leave out of the cloakroom and without a word he drags me away. Because of the smell, of the music, I know that we are now in the actual club. I try to stop for a second, orientate myself. Without a word he push me through the club, while I try to fight back. I can feel a rough wall against my skin, and I know we have entered one of the small rooms, much like a underground basement.

I have a dress on, a Primark find,underneath very comfortable knickers  and a simple white bra and black ballerina shoes. Nothing special and nothing that can’t get dirty, exactly as he told me.
When he has pinned me against the rough wall I realise why when I hear a ‘click’. The switchblade slowly, teasingly cut holes in the fabric. The Ethical Hedonist tears off the ripped dress, and slowly, slowly snaps the brastraps with the blade. I shake on the inside, trying to stay as still as possible. I hear a second click when the blade is put away. My brain tells me to leave, to run. My legs try, but he wrestles me back.

‘Did you try to run away? Don’t you know I got you now? That you are mine, and you are going to tell me everything you know? Every single little thing?’

Untitled, by Francesca Woodman

He turns me over, push me to the floor, the sticky, cold, concrete floor, the small pieces of gravel against my back and his boot pressing me down, feeling heavy on my chest.

I have something to hide, a piece of information**. Telling him over and over again about the past 24 hours. He is not satisfied, there is something else he wants to know. He will resolve to drastic measures this time.

‘I have many things with me now. People are kind enough even to provide water to this bucket. I pissed in it by the way. Do you hear me? How long time can you stand with your head held down? How long time before you tell me? The knifes are with me, I got electrics…’

The feeling of rope around the ancles, tightening.  Breathing hard, cunt clenches,  my throat gives away a moaning.  The pillowcase makes it hard to see anything, wrists are shackeled, ancles tied, and in between a chain is pulled, puling me into foeutusposition.

‘I could strangle you right here and now.’


Pillowcase is pulled off, a flashlight shines directly into my eyes, canetaps starts to rain over my ass. The look of his boots is blurred, the burning feeling after the cane makes it hurt even more when lying on the cold concrete floor.

He puts down the flashlight, behind my back, making the walls and ceiling into a canvas for shadows. I can see other people standing, their distorted shadows breathing, lowered voices. A small light. A lighter, he draws my attention right back to him again, flip me over to my back, the only thing I see is his face and the lighter he holds in his hands.

Cuffed hands

‘Do you have something to tell me?’

‘Nothing else than I love you’

‘Nice try, but wrong answer’

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