Dita Alert

CNN has an interview with Dita Von Teese that you can watch here. I like how the interview opens with the narrator calling Dita the most beautiful girl in London, but then the camera spends more time on the quirky interviewer than the subject. Blah, I hate it when the media becomes more important than the subject at hand.

The best part of the interview was when Dita explained how much power she had over her image. She explained that she knew she could never be a beautiful naked super thin beach model like the mainstream demands, but she could become what she is, a woman with a very distinct style and appearance. The fact that her style coincides with her own tastes is just bonus.

I've been a fan of Dita for ages. I came across her on Usenet and was struck by how singular she looked. At the time, fetish photography leaned towards this stark woodshed appearance with models who looked like malnourished runaways. I understand why BDSM fetish likes things that remind them of prison camps, but it is not for me. I like BDSM as a vibrant creative hobby instead of a recreation of humanity's darkness. Dita's retro look and immaculate appearance represented an ideal that can be aspired to. When she did bondage work, it always came across as a fun colorful experience, not a dour enslavement of the soul.

Dita embodies that one vital piece of fashion advice that so many people seem oblivious to. I see people wearing Betty Page t-shirts where the wearer says that they wear the shirt because they are a fan of her style and appearance. Don't wear a t-shirt of someone you admire. Embrace what you admire of them and incorporate it. Dita has become synonymous with her role models by observation, reproduction and innovation. She understood what she admired about them and followed in their footsteps. She didn't declare her love for the 40's by buying a bunch of t-shirts and getting a dozen saucy tattoos.

Over the years it seems Dita models less and does more burlesque work. I am a little disappointed as her modeling work is something I can access from home, while her burlesque work is something only shared with those who see her in person. I can't fault her though. I imagine that burlesque is a more creative work for her. It forces a person to be both author and subject. Hell, it's really just an old fashioned version of blogging if you want to get down to it.

Fiction: White Sector

"Code Red! This is not a Drill!"

Deep within the Von Madd Laboratories is a special area that only a very select few ever get to see. It is a completely self contained dormitory, with it's own food supplies, air circulation system, fitness center and power supply. Airlocks and blast doors along with a sophisticated laser system prevent any unauthorized individuals from even getting close to Sector White.

Inside White Sector lives thirty of the most beautiful women in the world. They have been selected from around the world for their beauty, their nurturing natures, and how well they look in a white nurse's uniform. These special women are then locked away in their own germ free environment where they study the latest techniques in medical treatments.

But as pampered as these women are, there always comes a time when they must spring into action. Once the Red Alert code goes out, all thirty women slip into their tight white stockings and one size too small bras. They pour themselves into tight fitting white nurse's uniforms before hobbling themselves onto impossibly high heels. Glasses are worn by everyone of them regardless of optical prowess. Before they leave the White Sector, the last thing they put on is a warm smile.

Otto Von Madd, erotic genuis, doctor and a complete total wimp when it came to being sick, pushed the White Sector red alert button a few more times. He was in bed with a stuffy head, a sore throat and death wish. He was running a temperature and wished the world would just end. He was convinced he had a version of the plague but what he really had was a sinus infection.

The nurses poured into his bedroom. Thirty warm smiles greeted him as he snuffled in bed. Despite the soreness of his body, his cock awoke at the sight of thirty pairs of white stockings and thirty flirting cleavages.

"I feel sick," he told his most trusted employees.

Thirty "awwww"'s made him feel much better.

Grab a Breast, Save a Life

Work has been a bit busy lately. It's also been a bit stressful. It's more goal oriented now and everyday I look at the daily goals and think, "Fuck, me and what army?" And everyday I somehow get it done which is nice, but I've turned down dates just because I knew I wouldn't stop worrying about whatever crisis I had to solve today.

So today's picture is closer to what I would rather be doing: Ashley and her wonderful chest. If I could hold onto her tit the entire time I worked, I could put up with anything.

Lunch

"So does your job get any break times?" she asked.

"Not really." I said. "Working from home, you just work till the work is gone. I do sometimes take an hour for lunch."

"Cool, maybe we can do something."

"Beth, are you offering to be my lunch?"

She giggled. "I would love to be your lunch."

Which meant a delicious 40 minutes of spanking followed by 20 minutes of eating. Sandwiches people, a man has to eat. I did however call her 'lunch' during the entire spanking and gave her a reminder of the occasion.

Grip

This is another picture of Ashley's hands. I've done variations of this pose before in pictures. AS a writer it makes me feel uncreative but as a dom I can't get enough of them. I love this pose. I love hands because they are the instruments of the mind. They do our chores, our art and our sex. To see a pair of hands just clench down on a bed, a desk or a length of rope; just turns me on something crazy. Clenching hands to me represent the abscence of thought, it's just clamping down while something fantastic is happening to the rest of your body.

Von Madd Oath

I swear by Aphrodite, Eros, and Kinsey that I will fulfill according to my genius this oath:

To honor and respect all others who seek erotic knowledge, whether they be scientists, artists, prostitutes or simply pleasure seekers.

I will apply my erotic knowledge for the benefit of sexuality according to my ability and judgment, and not for the forces of unhealthy Puritanical restrictions.

I will never use my knowledge to harm others without their consent.

I will treat all forms of sexuality equally and will not curb my research to prejudice sexual practices that are not my own.

I will never fuck my lower ranked employees for pure sexual gratification; I will do it for sexual gratification and to further research.

If I fulfill this oath and do not violate it, may it be granted to me to have endless sexual experiences and be honored wit fame among all sexual people for all time to come; if I transgress and swear falsely, may my sexual organs fail and cause me to be an object of ridicule for all time.

Fiction: Osculating

Melissa Livens stood before her boss and waited. She had several doctorates in biology, sexuality and chemistry, but the 40-something doctor was as nervous as an intern washing her first test tube. Her hands kept moving, clasping, unclasping, folding and unfolding as she waited for her employer to finish reading her report.

“Amazing,” Otto Von Madd said. Dr. Livens felt a flush of pride. Strange how a single word could make her lips tingle.

“Thank you, Dr. Von Madd,” Melissa said. “But if it weren’t for your breakthrough in contact aphrodisiacs, I would have never been able to start.”

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Otto shook his head. “All my work did was present you with a bed; you did all the hard chemical fucking. You’ve created a lipstick that sends physical stimuli to the sex organs of both participants of a kiss. With this product, we can revolutionize kissing and safe sex with a single strawberry flavored application.”

“Actually, it’s cherry-flavored,” Melissa said. Her hands fumbled over one another. “I heard cherry was your favorite flavor.”

Otto looked up from his report. “It is. Tell me, Dr. Livens, when can a prototype be ready for testing?”

Melissa crammed her hands into her lab-coat pockets. “I’m wearing the prototype on my lips right now.”

Dr. Von Madd closed the report, and Melissa felt a surge of embarrassment. Was that too forward? It was so hard to tell when you worked for the most brilliant mind in erotic sciences. Her hands came out of the lab coat and nervously smoothed down the lines of her coat.

“Dr. Livens, I say we give it a proper testing then,” Dr. Von Madd said.

He got up from his chair and walked around to Melissa. She stood still, pinned to the ground by her own excitement. For months, she had worked on this lipstick, always keeping in mind just whom she wanted to try it out with first.

Science brings its own rewards.

Melissa clenched her fists as Otto’s arms went around her. Her hands unclenched as he tilted her chin up towards him. Before she closed her eyes, she saw him lick his lips, as eager to taste her as she was for him.

Their lips met. Cherry-flavored chemicals reacted to the pressure of another pair of lips and released supra-endorphins into her bloodstream. Radiation-altered aphrodisiacs flowed back into Otto’s mouth, triggering an erection that would make Viagra producers weep with envy. Sexual tension blossomed from the kiss, but the lipstick turned the kiss into sexual gratification.

When Otto’s tongue met hers, Melissa felt it on her clitoris. As his teeth grazed her tongue, Melissa gasped from the sensation of being entered. While their lips pressed and their teeth nibbled, Melissa felt the regular, fulfilling rhythm of being fucked. Her mouth had become a sexual organ, completely capable of receiving pleasure.

It wasn’t one-sided. She could feel Von Madd’s bulge pressing against her waist. His hand on her back was clenching her lab coat in pleasure. He moaned into her lips, setting off a delicious feedback through the lipstick that made both of their knees shake.

Their hips kept moving, but it gave them nothing but the frustration of a dry hump. It was all about the kiss. Only their lips and tongues could grip his cock and fill her cunt. In time, they stopped humping and performed the only act that could get them off — kissing as if their orgasms depended on it.

Which they did.

“This was oral sex,” Melissa thought. Sucking cock seemed so one-sided compared to feeling simultaneous shivers from a tangling of tongues. Having your cunt licked seemed like a waste of time when you could make your lover feel the same delicious bliss with a nip of teeth. Their mouths merged into one fucking orgy of lips, tongues and teeth.

She came first. Her knees threatened to give out, but Dr. Von Madd held onto her. She wasn’t sure if it was an act of gallantry on his part or just a desire to keep her mouth where he could keep fucking her. She moaned her orgasm and became aware of where her forgotten hands had gotten to. They were entwined in Dr. Von Madd’s hair, clutching his head to her like thighs wrapped around a waist.

She came twice more before she felt Dr. Von Madd begin to shake. She worried that he might be having an adverse reaction to the lipstick, but the passion of his kissing increased until it was a marauding ravishing. His mouth took possession of hers as his orgasm approached. Melissa surrendered to his passion, giving her mouth to him completely.

He climaxed. They trembled together, still locked in a kiss neither of them was willing to break. His stuttering moan vibrated on her lips. Gently, Melissa sucked on his tongue as if she were trying to taste the semen that was splashed on the inside of Dr. Von Madd’s boxers.

They broke the kiss, and both of them whimpered. They stood there, leaning on each other for support. Melissa was dimly aware of how wet her underwear was; that made her wander what the inside of Dr. Von Madd’s underwear must look like.

He kissed her again. This time, there was no chemical reaction. When their lips touched, there was only the brush of lips on lips.

He kissed her again.

“Doctor,” she said. “The lipstick must have faded. We’re not getting any more sexual stimulation.”

“That’s OK, Dr. Livens,” Otto said. “I just like kissing you.”

Her hands began to fret again.

Cinnamon Mouth

The lovely Ashley and her lovely mouth. I didn't realize how busy work had been keeping me till I saw this picture was taken in June. I need to take more pictures.

Spoiler Sluts

Beth is a HUGE Harry Potter fan. She makes costumes, she collects the souvenirs and she is passionate about the books like I am about bottoms. Beth's plan for the last Harry Potter book coming out this friday at midnight is simple: she's locking herself in her room, avoiding the internet and reading the damn thing straight through before anyone can spoil it for her.

Alas, her plan failed. She read a spoiler on a fan site. Apparently in Germany, they have the book already and someone posted pictures and a damn death count list of who dies. Beth was devastated.

I investigated. I am not that big of a Potter fan. Let's leave it at that and all be friends, okay? I decided to go brave the scary internet and see if in fact, Beth's spoilers were true. What I found were fascinating examples of how people are more interesting than fiction.

The first spoiler I came across was apparently from a Leet Hacker for Christ who was spoiling the book as a blow against Neo-Paganism. Let that roll around in your head for a moment. Imagine what the counter-strike would be: Potter fans spoiling the Bible on the Internet.

OMG, Jesus DIESSSSS!!! But its cool yo because Jesus gets back up and is fine three days later. Judas dies though.

Anyhoo, Leet Hacker for Christ says Hermione dies. You know what? The cynical non-Potter fan in me got really sad when I read that. I didn't want it to be true. Not the girl. Kill the other friend, Ron. It'll make him famous, but leave my geeky girl alone.

So with heavy heart, I went looking to see if anyone has debunked Leet Hacker for Christ. Lo and behold, what I found was another spoiler from another source! Holy crap, the forces of evil are working over time. Strangely enough, these people leaked what seemed to be another book as this time, Ron dies.

Whew.

Wait a minute . . .

I found a few other spoilers too, but they ran along the same theme. Ron dies, or Hermione dies. Quite frankly that's a given, isn't it? I mean that's like spoiling that tomorrow will be sunny. It stands a good chance of it, but that doesn't mean you have inside knowledge. It's like a giant guessing game except some people put in way too much work into faking their evidence.

For me, I get fascinated by what motivates people to even come up with imaginary spoilers. Some people are assholes, and probably hoped they made a few people like beth really upset. I can almost understand that mentality but dude, there is something really sad about how much work asshole put into making someone else cry. I came across a 250 odd page fake excerpt. At that point, making a fangirl cry just makes you the bigger nerd.

Part of me wonders how much of the spoiling drive is for net traffic. Think about it. You could raise massive traffic with your fake story and get people who would never come by in a million years to check out your site. In a way, I wonder if you could piggyback someone else's success by faking spoilers to their success.

In that same vein, could you maliciously hurt another company that way? Let's say I was launching my new book, 'Mary Sue and Magic MacGuffin' that same week, and I wanted to kick my main competitor in the nuts. Would a company engage in a little spoiler attack to hurt enthusiasm. Goddess, it makes me wish I was still writing 'Thigh Vs Thigh'. That would be hilarious.

Amy would totally be a Hermione fan, while Bethany would identify with Cho. Otto of course would be hot for McGonagall.

Ahem.

I love hoaxes. It is the ultimate form of fiction making, to create a lie believable enough for people to suspend disbelief enough to think it is true. I just can't wrap my head around doing a hoax that is going to be disproven literally in three days.

For the record, this is my spoiler thought- Harry will not die but I bet he gets depowered. If he loses his ability to make magic then you have a nice metaphor about how growing up removes you from the magic of childhood. That's how I would do it, which if Hollywood has taught me anything, it is that what will actually happen is Harry will die, Hermione will die and Ron will whine about how unfair it is that he doesn't get a heroic death.

Erogenous Cartography

There is a spot, just under the waist, closer to the hip than the crotch but still safely in underwear territory that fascinates me right now. It doesn't matter if it is fingers, a leg or a mouth, my mind forgets everything else that is happening and I pay attention to there.

Will the person move away from that spot, leaving me with a terrible feeling of lost opportunities but heightened arousal?

Will the person stay on that spot, making me so hyper aware of where their hair, breasts or other parts are touching me?

Or will they move down and to the right, taking hold of my cock which is already pulsing with anticipation?

When that certain spot is touched, any of those three possibilities are delicious.

What If I Just Don't Care

There is a story I've been writing for over a week now. I think the premise is really novel and I'm excited about it, but man, writing it out took forever. I kept finding other things to do, things to read or movies to watch. I would sit back down with the story and correct some parts but rarely did I add anything new. Something about it just wasn't working and for awhile I thought it was work stress. Luckily I figured out what was wrong last night. I just didn't give a fuck about the characters.

There are times when I am writing a short story that I really want to make it as economical as possible. I feel that when it comes to blog reading, people have other things to read or do, so I lean towards short and sweet. Now if I have a massive idea like BDSM Beach, I am more than happy to take my sweet time. On the day to day postings though, I really try to keep it short enough that you can read, absorb, and carry with you without having to sacrifice your lunch hour.

The trick though, is to make the characters interesting enough that you actually give a rat's ass what happens to them, even for two pages. You would think I would know that by now but here I went and spent a week writing about characters who were as identifiable as a Lincoln log. I was too caught up in the neat idea to notice that the neat idea was happening to people I didn't give a rat's ass about. That's the downside of story economy, when you're cutting out the bits that help get you in the story. Cut those out, and you really don't have a story at all.

Saturday Cool

Kevin Church's blog alerted me to the coolest thing ever. Shirley Bassey, singing well, just listen and let the coolness sink in.

Fiction: Wicked Prayer

Just three thrusts, that's all I need. Give me three slow pushes into that cunt and I'll be a happy man. I swear it. Let me feel her pussy close around me as I slide in and out, in and out, in and out and then I'll stay out I promise. That's all it will take me and I just know I would cum in her sweet little cunt. I just know it.

Yeah, I know last time I asked for just one thrust and yes it was perfect. It was everything I ever dreamed. It was tight, wet, hot and everything else a man wants in a cunt. It wasn't like my wife's cunt at all. That one thrust was like steak after years of eating Spam. It was like putting on silk after years over wearing wool. It was like fucking a woman after years of fucking a bitch. It was just too damn perfect.

How could the world do that to me? How can it honestly expect me to have one thrust and walk away? Now that I know what I am missing, I just need a little more. Then I'll be satisfied. I swear it. Just give me three thrusts and I'll know what its like to fuck again. Give me three clenches and I can masturbate to that for years. I can go back to my old life and be happy because just once, I had the world's greatest cunt.

Just three thrusts this time and I'll be good.

I promise.

Fiction: A Very Special Dildo

Once upon a time, there was a very special dildo named Roy. Made out of transparent Pyrex, Roy looked like a delicate glass sculpture dedicated to phallic imagery rather than the hard fucking tool he really was. He had many textured ribs along the length of his form. His shape was curved to reach those very special places. On his tip were many stimulating bumps designed for a woman’s pleasure. Roy was solid, dependable and filled a cunt just as a good dildo should.

Roy was owned by a woman named Ellen. She was a kind owner. She treated all her toys with care. She kissed her toys and gave them names, and during a few personally lonely weeks, she made sure to give each toy equal time, for she could not stand the thought of even a sex toy being neglected. Ellen cared for her sex toys as she wished her lovers cared for her.

One night, Ellen took Roy into the shower. She needed to wash, and it had occurred to her that Roy could use a cleaning, too. And if Roy should happen to get clean, get dirty and then get clean again, there are worse things for a single woman to do alone in her shower.

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Roy was placed high up in the handy shampoo tray that hung below Ellen’s showerhead. Ellen started with her hair. No matter what happened tonight, she wanted to make sure her hair got clean, at least. She turned around and tilted her head back into the falling water.

That was when tragedy struck.

Her hands brushed Roy, and because shampoo trays are meant to hold shampoo and not dildos with textured ribs, specially designed curved bodies and stimulating bumps for her pleasure, Roy fell out. He tumbled down, down, down onto the ceramic bathtub, and because he was a very special dildo, when he shattered, none of the three sharp heavy pieces cut Ellen.

Ellen screamed. Ellen groaned. Ellen dried off and cleaned. Late that night, she even cried.

As for Roy, he stayed shattered and broken.

But that is not the end of Roy’s story.

Maybe it was the Pyrex, which most people will agree is a strange and wonderful material for a sex toy. Maybe it was the cooperation of certain stars and planets aligning in special ways. Or maybe Ellen’s last boyfriend had been right and Ellen really did have a magic pussy. Whatever the reason, one year later, to the night, Roy came back to life in that very same bathtub.

He wasn’t made of Pyrex anymore. He was made of that weird not quite solid material ghosts are made of. He was immaterial enough to go through walls but solid enough to stretch a willing cunt. Roy was warm now, and whether that was because he had returned from heaven or from hell was something for others to debate. The important thing to know is that Roy was back, and he had missed Ellen very much.

But there was a problem that Roy wasn’t aware of. Being a simple sex toy returned from the disembodied, he couldn’t begin to fathom that Ellen had picked up a new job that had moved her across state. He didn’t understand that right at this very moment, she was playing with another sex toy, named Peter, in a much larger bathroom hundreds of miles away. Poor Roy didn’t know that although he had not been forgotten, he had certainly been replaced.

All Roy knew was that he needed to fuck Ellen. Being a sex toy with textured ribs, a specially designed curved body and stimulating bumps for her pleasure, Roy could not just passively float around and haunt an apartment shower forever.

Which is a good thing, because the current apartment renter, Ms. Frieda Panders, would must likely have gotten a tingling in her underpants and died of pure fright if she’d ever seen a sex toy as lovely as Roy. Truth be told, Frieda had a lot of issues and would need her own incident of magical intervention to change her life around, but that’s another story.

So Roy did what any resurrected sex toy would do, and he began to search for his beloved Ellen. His new ghostly form gave him the power of flight, but due to the strange rules that govern revived sex toys, he could not leave the bathtub. Or rather, he had to stay in a bathtub, but he was free to travel from bathtub to bathtub and he didn’t have to travel physically.

With a “pop!” and a little shower of ectoplasm, Roy appeared in another bathtub. This bathtub was occupied, and Roy became very excited. Could he have found Ellen already?

Well, here’s the thing. Even very special sex toys — with textured ribs, a specially designed curved body and stimulating bumps for her pleasure — don’t have eyes. They don’t have noses, and needless to say, they don’t have ears. All they really have is a very special sense of touch and the ability to find the nearest cat hair and somehow get it on them. To find out whether he had found Ellen, Roy was going to have to get personal.

He never made it to the pussy. The person he had found slapped him away. She didn’t seem to appreciate having a spectral dildo appear and try to invade her naughty parts. Roy was unused to violence and so he popped! away to another bathroom. He wasn’t discouraged, because well, a toy like him could go on forever.

In fact, the very next bathtub he appeared in happened to belong to a woman very much like Ellen. Her name was Gina, and what she lacked in physical similarity to Ellen she made up for in sexual appetite. In particular, she had a certain innate appreciation for a very special sex toy with textured ribs, a specially designed curved body and stimulating bumps for her pleasure.

So when Roy appeared beside Gina, the woman was not afraid. Due to a rather mean-spirited breakup that had happened just the previous week, Gina was a bit on the sexually frustrated side. Any other day, she might have run screaming from her shower, but on this night, she found herself thinking that there really was a guardian angel for the sexually lonely. Roy looked like an answer to desperate prayers mumbled under inadequate showerheads.

Gina grabbed Roy very gently and guided him an even gentler place. In and up he slipped, filled her quite nicely with his ectoplasmic body. Back and forth his textured ribs massaged her, curving up on a very special way. Bumps on his body stimulated Gina in all the right places and some wrong-in-a-good-way places as well.

Gina fucked Roy, and Roy fucked her back. Neither was quite what the other wanted, but both were what they needed. Showers can be lonely places, as they are cut off from the world by water and curtains, but they can also be very intimate places where two souls can commit dirty deeds together and let the evidence of their affair literally be washed away. On this night, there were a lot of dirty deeds to scrub clean.

When Gina had moaned her last orgasm and Roy had felt the last pulsing squeeze of her pussy, the two parted ways. Gina used the last of the rapidly cooling water to wash up, while Roy gently floated down in sex-toy orgasmic bliss. When Roy touched the bathtub floor, he popped! again. Even though Gina was sated and would sleep the night away with a smile, Roy still needed Ellen. There were more bathtubs to go.

And go on he has. Roy appears in bathtubs with frightened women, and he goes away. Roy appears in bathtubs with willing women, but once the thrusting is done and the orgasms have shaken the shower curtains, Roy disappears again, knowing that the pussy he’d been in was not the pussy that gave his life purpose. Roy even fucks a few male asses because in the heat of a shower, an ass is an ass, and it’s only from the inside that Roy can tell if whether the ass is that of his beloved Ellen.

Roy still hasn’t found Ellen. He keeps searching, though. He’s made a few new friends, created a few traumas and saved quite a few marriages, but deep down, what he really wants is to get deep down back into his Ellen. There’s a pussy for every toy, and for Roy, that pussy is Ellen’s.

The Narrative

What are you into? Spanking? Bondage? School skirts? Fucking? Domination?

I crave the narrative. I need the context for what we are about to do. Give me a premise, a situation, or a story and I will be ready to go. My cock will pick the direction but my brain will find the new ways to play. Let me write a story on her body, let me tell a tale on her tail and let me create an adventure just for her and me.

I'm not talking about role-playing, which is something I enjoy too. I will be happy to play the stern teacher or the disapproving doctor, but it's not necessary to clothe ourselves in fiction. There are stories floating around us constantly waiting to start with an kick-ass opening line. Has someone been flirting with me all night long and needs to be chased like the prey that she is? Has something been extra good and deserves a little reward for being so sweet? Did someone make me an offer with a shy glance, a forward comment or a delicious moment of begging? Real drama exists between everyone and that is what I love to tap into.

So what's your story?

Monday Daydream

I was watching 'Young Frankenstein' for the 100th time this month on AMC. There was a scene where the monster is tied down to a table with big metal straps. There were four or five metal bands and I got this little thrill as they strapped the monster in.

"I want that table for dungeon play," I said out loud.

"What kind of play would you do on it?" Beth asked. It was a good point. The metal cocooned the monster, pulling the legs and arms together. You could reach naughty bits but the compact nature of the limb placement meant you couldn't really get too invasive.

"Science play," I said.

I'm sure I would think of something.

Fiction: Market Research

Wendy Fullen was one of the few non-scientists who worked for Dr. Otto Von Madd. Wendy's expertise was in marketing. She took his brilliant inventions and either found mass market applications for them, or she found incredibly wealthy deviants willing to pay ridiculous sums of money for an authentic Von Madd sex aid. Today however, she felt like maybe she was missing some essential science gene that would let her understand the Dr's latest creation.

"Let's go over this again," Wendy said. The creation in question was a shiny silver vibrator that was sitting on the table between them. "It's a vibrator with over a hundred different speeds."

"Yes," Otto said.

"It osscilates, undulates and penetrates?" Wendy said.

"Yes."

"It is voice activated, and in fact, can be programmed with a begging chip, so that it only adjusts it's speed if begged properly?"

"Yes."

"And it ejects it's own lube, which has already been warmed up by it's own internal motor?"

"Yes."

"Well I have to say this may be your best vibrator yet," Wendy said. "But . . ."

"Yes?"

The vibrator on the desk twisted on it's own. Little feet came out of the base while tiny mechanical arms came out the sides. A plate slid down to reveal an face with friendly purple glowing eyes. The vibrator stood up, pointed at Wendy, and winked. It looked terribly proud of itself.

"I guess I don't understand why it changes into a robot," Wendy said.

Otto paused. Wendy had seen these pauses before. It was the pause of a genuis, trying to shut down all the complex thoughts in his brilliant mind so that lesser minds could understand what he was trying to convey.

"Because robots are cool," Otto said.

Fireworks

So I was spanking Beth last night. It had been a long 4th of July, made longer by the air conditioning dying. I had wanted to spank her all day long but it was just too hot and sticky. Around 10 at night, it had cooled down enough to actually enjoy some skin on skin contact.

Thirty minutes of butt-whooping later, her ass was baby blanket pink. Beth was bent over her bed, her wrists bound behind her back with my purple cuffs. Her hair was a tangled mess because I kept pulling it. She was grinding against the bed, partially because I told her to and partially because her hips had their own commands. Her knees shook a little during the last series of spanks I gave her so I gave her a moment to recover.

I grab her hair and lifted her face off the bed. "Want me to keep going?" I asked.

"Yes," she purred.

"Then ask for it," I said.

It was like pulling the cork out of a bottle. Words spilled out with a rush of emotion. Beth begged me to keep going. She pleaded with me to hurt her. She called me by name to do terrible things to her ass. It all came out in a torrent of desire, subservience and masochism. The last thing in the world she wanted was for me to stop, and the thing she wanted most was for me to be the one to do it to her.

I shoved her face back down into the bed. My knees were shaking now. Her words ricocheted inside my head, setting off so many good feelings I couldn't keep track of them all. I felt mean, I felt good, I felt powerful, I felt sexy, I felt benevolent, I felt skilled, I felt adored, I felt feared and I felt alive. Her begging was better than any orgasm could have been.

I picked up the mean black paddle and gave her exactly what she deserved.

Fiction: Splendid Morning

Lacey was dreaming. It was the dream where she was on the bus even though she hadn’t taken public transit in over a year. The people on the bus kept snickering at her. Something had happened to her used car, although in the dream Lacey didn’t know what, and now she was forced to take the bus again. The people on the dream bus knew this and were openly mocking her. They ridiculed her for trying to be better than them and they delighted in the fact that now she had fallen back into the humiliation of public transit.

It was a dream and inherently silly but it was Lacey’s fears that wrote this dream. They spoke with the secret voice of her mother and it resonated with the shameful deep center that lurked within Lacey. She stood there in the middle of the bus, standing because no one would give her a seat. The bus jerked and kept her constantly off balance. At any moment she was going to fall and that would make her humiliations complete. Alone in her dreams, she struggled to delay the inevitable.

Something pushed her down hard. She landed on the dirty floor of the bus. Lacey could feel the weight of a man pushing down on her and her earlier shame transformed into terror. Strong hands gripped her wrists and pinned her down. A heavy male scent washed over her. She could feel the bulge of his cock pressing into her ass.

Then came the bite. Hard. Sharp. Powerful.

The bite clamped her neck and squeezed

till

Lacey

woke

up.

Robert was on top of her. He had her pinned down. The sun peeked through the curtains to show his strong hands holding down her wrists. She could feel his cock throb against her ass. His teeth were on her neck; biting down like a cat bites its mate. He might fuck her, he might not. In the early morning, there is no telling which way he may choose.

This was how he woke her every morning. Claiming her with hands, teeth and sometimes cock, he made her his every day. She was his from the very moment she opened her eyes.

“No,” Lacey thought. From before she opened her eyes.

His teeth released her but his hands didn’t let her go.

“Good morning,” he said.

She groaned. Her body was alive before her mind was. She wiggled beneath him, trying to tempt him to fuck her.

“What did you dream about?” he asked.

Lacey hesitated. The dream was gone. She couldn’t remember the bus, the cruel people or the thought of losing her car. Her fears, doubts and shame shrank into nothing under the pressure of his powerful hands and his claiming bite. Lacey had a vague feeling that it was a bad dream but she couldn’t really say. The dream with all of the nasty mean doubting voices belonged to someone else. They certainly didn’t belong to the claimed sensual woman with the bitten neck.

“I can’t remember,” she said, and it was true.

Start Up

The power came back on first. Black lights, spotlights, dungeon lights, bedroom lights and the always important bathroom lights flickered back on. The gentle hum of air conditioners shook everything like a house sized vibrator. In other more sticky rooms, the heat amped up till it was safe to walk butt naked again. Video cameras opened their eyes, searching and recording everything with their voyeur obsession.

Slowly the characters back to work. It started with a curvy girl with nipple jewelry and she was joined by girls with glasses, girls with skirts and girls who laid around the house in t-shirts and panties. Some of them were no more than half formed thoughts; a singular feature like a great smile or a tight ass. Other characters were more conceptual like the Strict Doctor or the Biting Kisser. Some characters were recreations of real people, clothed in erotic reinterpretations. One or two were recreations of people who should be real.

As the characters became more vivid, settings and props filled in around them. A shower appeared here, a cozy bed appeared there, while an entire science lab linked together like an erotic Lego set. Toys spontaneously edited themselves in. Dildoes popped within arm's reach. Paddles hung on walls like they had always been there. Entire wardrobes wrapped themselves around the characters, clothing them in the endless possibilities that the libido might require.

Last come the plots. They link everything together with intangible purple lines. This is the touchy part, for the plots swap pieces, trade characters, disintegrate some details and outright steal other elements from other plots. Entire stories die in this phase, dropping back into the subconscious to emerge years later in other stories or maybe only reappear tonight during sex. Some stories become impossibly large before shrinking back down into the realm of convenience. Like some kind of high speed orgy, the plots copulate and fuck until a handful are left. They stand there panting and sweating with the need to be written.

The blog is ready to post again.