Tag Archives: kinks
I have a huge list of RSS feeds that get updated on my phone every morning for reading on the forty-five minute ride I make every day. I’ve noticed a certain eagerness lately for posts from a few webpages and I thought I’d share them with my lovely readers.
If you have any other erotica or sex blogs that you think fit my aesthetic, please share them with me.
Oh Miss Danger. Her stories are hot and dirty and sometimes more than a bit sad. They are scratched photos of scenes that are extraordinarily intense. I can’t recommend her enough.
She also tends to hit on a lot of my personal kinks.
Sometimes I read things that just piss me off because I wish I wrote them. Guy writes really well and paints vivid scenes that are often far too close to my own fantasies and experiences. From what I hear around town we have similar tastes.
It’s really not fair at all. Sinclair is this brilliant activist and gender theorist, he writes so much awesome and intellectual stuff. Why is it that he can also write totally hot smut too? It’s supposed to be one or the other and frankly he’s making me look bad.
Sinclair is really amazing, go read his stuff. The latest sexy post is honest and vulnerable and intimate.
I recently met Wilhelmina Wang and that prompted me to reread her stuff. Damn there is some hot stories on that site. I like the switchiness of it. I like the way she words things. Also, she is gorgeous.
Her style may be a bit more straight forward, but Molly Ren gets the point across. I may be bias because she has written about me. I like to read the perspective of fetishists, especially fetishes that I don’t fully understand. I also like when fetishists are open to a variety of kinks.
She wrote about when we peed on a boy together.
Mina and Sylvanus write about various parts of their sex lives. I’m a bit partial to Mina’s stories and pictures, especially all the Daddy girl play. Honestly that part is bitter sweet because it makes me think about things I no longer have and miss a lot.
Still, good stuff. Honest and pretty words with hot photos.
There are many more, but these are the ones I listed on the train this morning, so this is what you get.
Also, since we are talking about sexy sex blogs, you should nominate me for the Sexiest Bloggers of 2010 list. Nominations for Sexiest Bloggers of 2010. Nominations close on July 31.
Of late, since my play and my sex life have become both more varied and more plentiful, some of the particulars of my own sexuality have become more and more apparent.
Some of these things I’ve known for years, but haven’t really thought about in depth. In most situations these leanings and proclivities can be hidden by the normal dynamics of sex, especially casual sex, where every position and combination isn’t going to be attempted anyhow, so brevity aids omission or at least camouflage.
Power and control are a lot more important to my sexual pleasure than I once thought. I am realizing I have a lot of trouble giving up control, or, more accurately, giving up what I consider control. That seems somewhat normal — after all, I’m a mostly-straight guy who is primarily a top. By most social norms I should be used to being in control. Still, my ideas about control seem a little warped when I look at them more carefully.
The act of being brought to orgasm by someone or even giving yourself an orgasm in front of someone is, in some fundamental way in my head, a submission. It is showing your out of control side. It is being vulnerable. It is being needy. It is everything that little Jack was taught was bad.
Intellectually I know that this is nonsense. Still, a lot of our reactions during intimacy are non-cognitive, deeply emotional and hard to understand without some real processing.
For example, it’s rare that I have an orgasm through oral sex or manual sex. The exception is that if I am also stimulating my partner
during this, I can focus on that long enough to make me forget. Does that make sense? Like the sex lives of most kinky people, sex is complicated.
I would say I get off far harder making people have orgasms than having them myself, with the exception of really intense penetrative sex which is usually awesome for me.
Fingering a woman, performing oral sex and using sex toys on them all turn me on in a huge way. I’ve gotten into what is probably my favorite activity, making women squirt, in some other posts. There is also “forced orgasm” which is in many ways the apex of my kink, i.e., making someone come over and over again until they can’t stand it anymore and are so overwhelmed by the orgasms and the sensation overload they are left a quivery mess.
I’ve written about that, though. What I haven’t written about much is my own reactions.
I’ve had partners comment when I don’t have an orgasm or don’t even really get into my own physical sexual gratification in a scene. I can do a whole scene mostly clothed while the bottom has been stripped, tied, roughed up, made to come several times. I can go away from a scene like that completely aroused and satisfied. Really, bringing my penis into the situation would make it less of fun time. I get off hard in a scene like that, and the somewhat less important desire to have an orgasm not only gets in the way, but gives the bottom far too much power over me.
There are different ways to play, though. That is describing one mood and maybe one character I let myself slip into: the super observant
reaction top who notices everything, mocks everything, punishes, pleases, and plays for his amusement and to take the bottom somewhere. When I am in that head space I want to force reactions. Pleasure, pain, humiliation, lust, need and even catharsis.
Other times I can be more playful or more mean. Sometimes I just want to fuck and the kinks that go along with that game, spanking, manhandling and pinning down hands, are very different than a full on scene. Sometimes I want to have relatively vanilla sex, but still I am taking it.
To receive pleasure I have to be in a very different place. I have to be with someone I trust to be vulnerable with and that doesn’t happen very often. It has happened though, in long term relationships with people I am in love with and care about enough to show that side of myself. Even then, it is a pretty temperamental thing.
This is also because of the lingering fingers of the Catholic guilt from my childhood. It marks many of my desires with guilt and embarrassment. Along with guilt are the lessons taught both overtly and subconsciously through my childhood by my father: that it is weak and wrong to show emotions. Both factors conspire to taint things like public displays of affection, talking about my emotions, saying “I love you” and showing desire towards men.
My mixed feelings towards sex with men are some of the most violently guilt ridden and humiliating, which leads to them also being ones I read about and think about secretly. Thus my fascination with slash.
Where do I go with this information?
For the last six months I’ve been trying to do things that are out of my comfort zone. I’m testing myself and having adventures and trying to break the barriers that keep me from doing everything that I want. I feel like I am really exploring my own desire and the desires of others. I’m shaky and wide eyed and having a lot of fun. Some of the things, like bottoming, make my fears and mental blocks much more apparent and cumbersome.
A good example of this is how when I am bottoming I feel like I am good at taking pain and force and aggression, but the cuddling afterward makes me want to escape. Receiving pleasure, especially
when I can’t control it or return it, is almost enough to break me out of the whole scene. When I am really turned on my hands shake with the need to take control. When I am confronted with “giving in” and being “made to come” my head twists and turns and won’t let my body do it.
That being said, I am more than willing to try. I even think trying is important. Breaking down the barriers to pleasure is as interesting as reveling in the sublimations my head has come up with to work around the blocks.
It’s interesting to think of how far I’ve come, so to speak, in discovering my sexuality. From looking at dirty stories online as a horny fourteen year old to writing things and doing things I’d never imagined I’d do. It will be interesting to see where my life will go from here.
Title image by itsholly. CC BY-NC 2.0
She is a candy stranger. Perfect in the way someone you don’t know at all can be perfect. Her small breasts and her large hips and soft swell of an ass that seems nearly impossible on her tiny frame. Her thin waist and her wild hair. That exoticness that is so difficult for people to get right.
She is new to this, but she’ll do just fine. In fact, it’s hard to find regulars with an attitude so perfect for these games. Right for me, that is. Everyone wants something different from places like this. The Venn Diagrams of our emotional, physical and sexual wants. Cross-indexed by our needs.
In this new life, I have slipped into a variety of completely new relationships. I’ve always been the kind of person who has a small circle of very close friends and I tended to shy away from the masses of acquaintances people seem to collect in this city. Now I seem to be joining ever-growing groups of interesting and open-minded people. This has led to months of fun, flirty and often fierce conversation. In some ways these connections are almost better than all the sex and exploration. (Almost, but not quite.)
I hadn’t considered my sadistic side very much until about a year ago. If anything, I had often thought that I was squeamish about really hurting someone and that might be a real hindrance to being a dom. After a few enthusiastic scenes and I found that the little seed of a sadist in me was starting to bloom. The key, I realized, was playing with masochists.
It’s funny how your personality changes in certain situations. I’ve noticed all these parts of myself that come out when I am doing certain things. The seducer, looking at sex as a challenge and an artform. The toppy boyfriend, with his sarcasm and teasing. The daddy, who is overprotective while being dirty. The aspiring rigger, with his knitted brow and stern focus. The sadist, who is almost constantly wearing an evil grin and always thinking of the next form of torture.
So as I was saying, besides the cadre of smart and sexy friends with whom I converse, there are a few smart and sexy girls that I beat up on a somewhat regular basis. It’s interesting, because in general these are not exactly sexual relationships, though certainly they all have sexual elements. Mostly, though, they are about administering pain.
For example, here is a tale of a girl – well not really one girl but sort of an amalgam of a few people I know. There are too many scenes in my head and writing about the important parts of each would take too long. But basically, this is what I’m talking about…
We had been on a few dates, after work drinks, talking and flirting and exchanging the social currency of anecdote and background.
In this time we used the complex mating language of eyes and subtext to explain our emotional availability. We danced around our proclivities. We ferreted out kinks and occasionally just came out and owned our desires.
Negotiation came later. By then we had reached that plateau of reasonable trust and adequate acquaintance. The fourth date would be at my apartment.
She was on her mid twenties, bright, educated, good job, interesting life. The city seems to either breed the complicated or pull them magnet like from all points of the compass.
Dark hair with severe bangs and thick glasses. She had a wealth of interests which showed her curiosity, which to me is the most important virtue. She was cute if not pretty but her style brought her look up. She knew how to wear clothes. She was an artist through and through, but more than that she was an artist who could make a living which was certainly a precious thing in this city.
“I’m a masochist,” she said rather plainly. “I had a boyfriend who I finally convinced to spank me, but he never hit hard enough and it always just left me unsatisfied.”
“‘I don’t want to hurt you, baby, I love you,’ is what he’d say.” she quoted in mocking a luggish tone.
I understood very well. The spanking was the gateway from vanilla to kink in many ways. It was still socially acceptable, if a bit risky by Cosmo standards. Still for many it was a glimpse of that new world we wanted to explore a lot more thoroughly.
Back at my apartment we had giddy grins and drinks. A conversation on the couch about work and the world, while both of us shifted closer and thought about how to start things.
“So, you liked that last story I wrote, hm?” It’s a way to gain a little control and bend the conversation towards where we both want to take it.
“Yeah, you could say that. I think I came six times. I soaked my sheets.”
I watched her eyes, there was some instinctual shame, but she actively fought it. She wanted to be bold, she wanted to own it.
“Well, I guess you owe me.” I said, reaching over and caressing her breasts, finding the nipple, pinching it roughly as I watch her reaction.
It was silly, really, but nothing is better than a little ego-stroking to build one’s confidence. I moved in and kissed her, then my hand moved up to her hair and pulled her head back so I could drag my teeth across her naked neck.
I’ll skip the rest of the beginning. I’ve certainly told the tale of a girl being bent over the arm of my couch and spanked far too many times. I will say this: While spanking her and getting her warmed up I did what I always do to partners in this situation. I progress quickly at first to find that line, how much they can take. There is always that level when they start squirming away from the blows. Some of them say “ouch” or the ones who are more experienced in more formal scenes even say “yellow”.
I kept hitting her and measuring and there was no yellow point. Harder and harder I spanked, but she gritted her teeth and took it. The few times I leaned over her body and whispered my little check-up questions into her ear, she just nodded. She was fine, I should keep going, harder.
That’s when I knew I was going to get to cane someone for real.
I only have one cane, though I am looking to remedy this. It is long and black and thin, sting-y and direct.
It’s sad, but I have to chide myself and force myself to start slow. I knew she had to be warmed up. I knew I had to be patient and calculating.
She is obedient and follows my every direction perfectly. Frankly it was all really more sensation play than dominance. A beating, not a punishment. I don’t want her to call me “sir,” I just want her to do what I say and take every stinging lash.
When I start, it is just a little bounce of the cane on her naked ass. Her skin is red from the spanking and flogging, with a circle of light purple where I had hit her the hardest, but the cane makes fresh and crisper red marks. Lines form, even from this light bouncing.
That first real hit, that first time the cane cuts through the air, is perfect. When the first blow lands her back arches. She takes it, but it is a lot even for her. She has only ever really had hands spanking her. I hit her three more times, once on each cheek and then once across both. Her hands don’t come up to protect her tender flesh the way other girls’ have, but she is suddenly still. I let the pain reverberate. I let her feel it and process it. I put my hand on her back and steady her, let her know I understand that it hurts and I am letting her deal with it.
Each time leaves three lines, red, then white, then red again. As I bounce the cane on her skin again I see that the four hard hits have started to bruise already. It makes me hard. It makes me giddy. I want to ruin her. I want to mark her. I want her to feel these marks all week and get wet every time she sits down and winces.
I go to work on her, bouncing the cane harder, making little syncopated rhythms that I remember my drummer friend taught me. I wait until the skin is red and hungry and then I hit her hard a few times, relishing each. I hit her harder, pulling my hand back farther and taking full swings that turn purple immediately.
She finally breaks a little and lets out an “ouch.” She doesn’t block me, though, she just slumps forward a little. I soothe her, I continue the bouncing as I pull her back into place. I place medium hits on spots that aren’t bruised. There is some minute change in her reaction and I take it as a sign we should move on for a bit.
When I pulled her up, her legs don’t respond properly and I am holding her. I laugh and push her against the wall. She gasps and smiles. I know the white wall is hard and cold.
My hand moved down her body and slips between her thighs. She is so wet her thighs are slick. She buries her head in my shoulder as the pleasure overtakes her for a moment. I push her away. It’s not cuddling time. It’s not pleasure time. Those will come.
I slapped her breast hard. Her eyes flash open. I cup each one and slap it down. She looks unsure how to take this. She is squirming.
“Do you like that?”
She nodded quickly, eagerly.
“Has anyone done this before?”
She shook her head. It’s hard for her to talk when she gets in this space. Important to note and damn adorable. I slap her harder, focusing on her nipples. Slap, slap, waiting for her wince, measuring out the limits of this new activity.
“Why do you like it?”
“It hurts.” She has that sort of look in her eyes that tell me that this was once something she was ashamed of, but now she was proud, or at least comfortable. Her tongue is thick in her mouth and it is hard for her to create sentences now, but she tried to continue.
“I also like it because I can see it. Usually it’s my ass and I can’t see it happen.”
I devour the flush in her face when she says this. This is useful information. Information means I can hurt her in more complicated ways.
I hit her breasts a few more times and relished her winces. She is so tough when I am spanking her, but her breasts are a lot more tender and she isn’t used to the sensations.
I was thinking of how else I could hurt her while she watched it happen. I like the idea of that. I remembered back at a sex conference when I watched a guy give a caning demo. It was really the first time I had ever seen someone get caned and the first time it really clicked that hitting someone and making marks on them was something I needed to do.
The top had his demo bottom sit on a table and he caned her lap. Talking to all of us as his rattan cane bounced up and down on her thighs. Progressing from tapping to hitting as she squirmed and moaned. That seemed perfect now. I got a towel and put it down on the cushion and then had her sit on said towel.
Probably my most powerful urge, one that’s been around a lot longer than sadistic desires, it to make a woman have an orgasm. Not help, not assist, but make. To force her to come. To have control over her body and her pleasure and to use a significant and powerful human reaction as nothing more than a tool for my amusement.
This whole time I was fully dressed. That was part of the scene, though I didn’t realize that for a while. She was a plaything, being stripped and used and played with. I was playing and amused by her arousal and entertained by her pain. She was naked because she is a slut and I am dressed because I am above the base needs she is tormented by, or so the game goes.
I got out some toys, fresh from ziplock bags, sterile and ready.
Some girls go into a dreamy place when they are being beaten. Some get feisty and fight back, kicking and cursing. This girl smiled, eyes just out of focus, and she giggled as she was hurt.
I plugged into the wall my favorite vibrating implement and shoved it between her half closed legs. I pushed her back a bit, manhandling her, and got the head of the condom covered toy against her clit. I closed her legs against it, letting the towel and her thighs hold it in position. As I turned it on I struck the tops of her thighs again with my cane.
She bit her lip, she ground against the vibrator and then winced as the cane left thin marks on her legs.
I switched to the riding crop, taking it to her breasts, the only place so far I was able to get a real reaction. I hit the tender bottoms of each breast, then the sides, the quick snaps on the nipples that made her cry out.
When I flipped her around, her knees on my couch and her arms and head hanging over the arm she was starting to get disoriented. I liked it when the pain and pleasure made them stupid. It is the point when you can really start to have fun.
I let loose with the cane a few times, the marks I had left before now a sharp violet. I crossed those line with fresh red and that made her jump. She wasn’t so tough anymore and when she pulled away from the cane I went to work on her with the vibrator.
This cycle started, cries and yelps followed by moans and whimpers. The cane and then the vibrator until she whined every time I pulled the vibrator away. I hit her a few more times and then held her down and pressed the vibrator on high against her sopping sex.
She mewed and tensed and came hard against me, pulling at my arm. When she was done pulled the vibrator away and just as she sighed in relief I pushed it back against her now over sensitive clit.
She fought against the overstimulation, but I held it to her, I let her ride it out until her hips were bucking again and she came even harder.
When she came down this time, I sank into the couch next to her and held her as she gasped for air and shivered. I petted her hair and smiled at her and soothed her, careful not to touch her still hot and stinging ass.
When we finally got up I saw something spectacular. It was my first real masterpiece. Her ass was almost uniformly purple with lines of wine red and angry pink and speckles of her pale skin showing through. I spun her around and marveled at it. Her thighs had a few scattered lines but nothing like her ass.
It was perfect. She kept touching the raised marks and smiling at her little prize. She was just as happy as I was, because this was the first time she’d gone this far and gotten when she’d been fantasizing about.
Through that next week I emailed her, checking in on the progress. The bruises lasted weeks. Those first few days she could hardly sit and she had to go to the bathroom of her office and finger herself because the pain was so intense and the memories so inescapable.
Confession time. I have a fetish. I’m actually excited about this because I have sort of felt bad about the fact that most of my kinks seem to be mental, emotional or, I say, intellectual. This is something material. Something physical. Something that is just hot. There is a simplicity in that which I find refreshing.
I am talking, of course, about thigh high socks. “Over the Knee” socks, if you will.
I’ve mentioned them before, I’m sure. I was introduced to the American Apparel Thigh High Socks a while back and ever since I have been sort of obsessed with them. Specifically the white ones with the three stripes. There is something innocent about them, so playful, so sexy. There is also something about the legs being so cover that it makes the thighs look so much more naked.
I really can’t put the attraction into words because it goes beyond just what I’ve written. When a girl is wearing thigh high socks and nothing else a little switch goes off in my head. My cock is harder. I want to really ravage her in a very aggressive way.
Partners note the difference right away. These socks make me instantly frisky. My hands roam between any legs encased in them instinctual.
Recently I was talking to someone about pubic hair and my (along with a lot of other people’s) love of its absence. I’ve sort of gone back on that one lately. I think I like a little hair, it is amusing. The wonderful thing is when there is hair for a while and then it gets shaved (or even better waxed) off. It is the juxtaposition of tactile sensations. It’s the same thing with the socks.
When those socks come off they leave little marks that make me bite my lip. The feel of those little impressions, tracing them with my fingers or my tongue. Once covered legs suddenly naked. Perfect.
All images were released under Creative Commons licenses. Click on the images to see the owner’s flickr.
Dear readers, you need to know something: Jack is not my given name. It’s not very far from my given name, but until I started this web page very few people ever called me Jack.
But that’s what people do, isn’t it? When you write pretty words about tying girls up you take on an alias. The alias gets used more and it becomes a character. You write as the character and then you eventually meet people as the character and in a way you become the character, at least a little.
To be honest, though, Jack was really born a year and a half ago when my life fell apart and I had to rebuild myself emotionally. Call it a phoenix-like rebirth or perhaps Bionic Man like reboot, I became someone very different. I have different priorities now and different ways of handling things. I adjusted to being 31 and single and I came out of the whole drama a lot stronger and a lot more interesting.
Jack is decidedly more confident than I am. He can even be a little cocky. Jack doesn’t mind talking too loud about rather shocking things in public places. Jack has really good luck with the ladies. Jack is forward and direct and very honest.
Lately I find myself introducing myself as Jack, even in non-blog/sex-geek/sex+ situations. When I meet new people I just introduce myself as Jack and my friends kind of look at me strangely, but it’s not that far fetched. It’s a couple of letters, but it is amazing how much of an effect it can have.
Lately life seems all about changing and realizing things and finding myself and understanding my desires. I am accepting a lot of things about myself, things that I’ve denied and things that I convinced myself weren’t true. Sometimes it is as easy as just letting go and accepting certain kinks. Sometimes it is deeper and it means admitting that certain feelings are ok to have. It also means allowing myself to get into new kinds of relationships. It’s tricky.
Ever since I started this, though, I have felt like my life has been amplified. Everything is far more intense and I am not just talking about sex and relationships. The world seems more accessible, things seem more vivid, life seems better. I used to feel so restrained by all of these rules that I enforced on myself and now it seems like every time I come to one of these self imposed walls I am able to look at it and judge with new eyes if it is something valid or not. I feel free.
So what does this all mean? I have no idea. I guess I am just taking some time to appreciate Jack. He certainly isn’t perfect, but I certainly like him.