Mendhi Henna

[TW: Sexual assault story] Vaginismus & Non-Penetrative Sex is Queer Sex

Thu, 06 Sep 2012 04:27:08 +1000

[TW: Sexual assault story] Vaginismus & Non-Penetrative Sex is Queer Sex:

This is awesome. I felt like I was the only queer person with vaginismus. The only thing I don’t like is the implication that the only way you can develop vaginismus is through sexual assault trauma. I’ve always had it, and I don’t know the cause. The causes also vary a lot when they’re known. The author may not have intended to imply that, but I just wanted to point that out because most people don’t know what vaginismus is, so I don’t want anyone getting misconceptions.

Anyway, the rest of this is what I’ve been saying for a long time for the same reasons, and I’m glad to see someone else making the same points.

Heya, thanks for the feedback. I’m sorry that I wasn’t as clear as I tried to when it comes to why vaginismus happens. I was trying to make the point that it shouldn’t matter whyanyone doesn’t want to be penetrated, and that you don’t need a reason like vaginismus to justify it. I got mine from sexual assault but even then penetration wasn’t doing much for me - I just participated because the other party got out of it much more than I did. Which is cool, I never felt coerced or forced into anything. But I don’t want anyone to ever feel like they have to make any sort of compromise that they are unwilling to do. We have our limits and that is perfectly fine.

Vaginismus & Non-Penetrative Sex is Queer Sex

Thu, 06 Sep 2012 04:22:42 +1000

Thank you CrashPad for allowing me to share my story <3

crashpadseries:

(Trigger warning: Sexual assault is mentioned)

It seems to me that for all the talking about how queer sex is more diverse or varied or open than the mainstream, it still shares a common marker: penetration as end goal.

Discussion of sex tips within queer circles often involves sharing tips on using dildos and strap-ons. Strap-ons and harnesses are celebrated in queer culture, portrayed as symbols of desirability especially amongst queer women. Fisting is a queer sex powermove.

This echoes more conventional ideas around heterosexual sex, where it doesn’t count as “sex” or “losing your virgninity” until there is vaginal penetration (though thankfully this
notion is being questioned more and more).

As a queer person who cannot do penetration, for reasons I will detail below, I already find much of mainstream sexual discourse alienating - but the alienation is doubly so in queer circles. I don’t expect mainstream sex (like most of mainstream culture) to represent me at all, but it’s an extra special frustration to feel like a freak in your community. I do not buy into [Dworkinesque politics about penetration being oppressive and resent the implication that I am not sex-positive or somehow ‘frigid’ because I find one mode of sexual activity overly represented. Instead I ask that us fellow queer people broaden our thinking on what makes great sex, moving away from specific activities as highlights to building whole experiences.

[TRIGGER WARNING]
Penetration didn’t used to be a problem for me; it didn’t really do as much for me as other forms of stimulation, but it was doable. Long before then I got more out of various forms of sexual play; I would rather spend my sexytime smothered in touch or having intensely intimate conversation. Penetration? Meh.

Then in 2009 I was raped at an all-women’s play party, mostly by the coercive and forced use of overly large dildos. Ever since then I have developed vaginismus, a psychosomatic condition that has made me unable to deal with almost any form of penetration, even smaller objects such as tampons, menstrual cups, or fingers. Dildos - particularly oversize ones - became a major trigger for me, to the point of shuddering whenever I run into the sex toys section at an adult shop. (I am deeply grateful that the crew at Crash Pad respected this during my shoot with them in 2011 and kept the dildos out of sight for me, and that Kitty Stryker found plenty of good ways to have fun on screen regardless. Thank you!)

It was already hard enough to find validation or help in my assault experience, given that it was woman-on-woman — people were stuck on the idea of women not being able to be perpetrators because they do not have penises to penetrate. (Ironically, the use of dildos made my story more “believeable” in the eyes of many misogynists.) In re-exploring my sexuality post-assault I found it very difficult to find representations or resources that didn’t focus on penetration as the Big Climax that everything else builds up to. My preferred modes of sexual pleasure were dismissed as just “foreplay” or “warming up”. So much queer porn didn’t seem complete unless they ended with dildos or fisting (so much fisting). Ow!

This strongly affected my confidence with romantic and sexual relationships. I am lucky to have a (straight, cis) male partner who has grown to enjoy non-penetrative sex so much that he, like me, prefers it to penetration; however, for a long time I felt like I was holding him back from expressing his full sexual options. The joys of relationship anarchy meant that we didn’t have to be each other’s only sexual partner, and indeed he has found another sexyfriend to explore penetration with as he wishes. In the meantime I too have been relatively lucky to find other sexyfriends and partners that didn’t insist or penetration, but many times it felt like making a concession rather than an exciting opportunity to try something different.

I would hear stories about being wrist-deep in another person, or be amongst friendly group chatter around where to find harnesses for dildos in the city, and feel left out. No one else seemed to as rhapsodic about, say, being eaten out the whole night (and have it end there) or not being touched at all and instead having a purely mental orgasmic experience. The closest thing I could find to my experience was the idea of being a “stone”, which really did not describe me. I am often a rather Top-py Pillow Princess; I love receiving dedicated attention. I just didn’t want this to include penetrative activity. Yet I couldn’t find anything that spoke to my sexual preferences without making it seem like I was missing out on something. I felt inadequate, unsexy, broken.

I figured I couldn’t be the only person with vaginismus or an inability to be penetrated. Sexual assault and rape are highly prevalent around the world — up to 71% of the population according to WHO multi-country studies. According to Vaginismus.com, roughly 2 in 1000 women will experience vaginismus, but the number could be higher due to shame and stigma.

What’s with making this a stigma anyway? Why do I or anyone else need to have a justification, medical or traumatic, to not want to involve penetration in sex? Maybe it just doesn’t do anything for you; most women (or female-assigned bodies) don’t orgasm from penetration alone anyway. Maybe you like everything else a whole lot more and would rather concentrate on the sex that feels great, rather than trying to hit arbitrary landmarks. Maybe you’re like me pre-sexual assault, and just find penetration middling.

I feel like we need to flip the Pareto principle around when it comes to depicting sexual possibility: rather than 80% of our attention being spent on 20% of our body (penetration of the genitals), let’s spend more time exploring the other 80% of ourselves: the rest of our body, the mind, the spirit. Here are some ideas for non-penetrative sexual pleasure:

Sensation play. The skin is the largest organ in the body - make use of it! As you can see on my shoot with Kitty Stryker, I’m a major feather fan (*snerk*) and go all melty on scratching. I’m also fond of food play — sweet toppings make me feel and smell so luscious afterwards! (Just don’t put them on genitals lest you get yeast infections). Play with textures, weight, pressure, even different ways of moving the object - slowly pulling a leather strap across the skin is far different than slapping that same leather strap. Remember to explore non-obvious sexual spots - perhaps there are certain points on the belly, or arm, or knee that make your paramour shudder in delight. My male partner got a lot out of [Bondassage, a lighter form of BDSM play that is sensation-centric - check their website out for ideas and training.

Creative sexytimes. I often say that art is my kink — I enjoy engaging my senses and erotic energy in creative outlets. Explore burlesque or pole-dancing. Head to a strip club and partake in a lapdance. Read erotic stories - or have someone read them out to you. Better yet, craft a highly personal fantasy for you and your lover! Try music too — the Sex Music tumblr has great recommendations. Have photos taken, make your own porn!

Oral sex or clitoral stimulation. Yes this is rather obvious, but it can be surprising how many people forget this as a viable sexual option, or overlook it in the rush to ‘fill that hole’. Enjoy the scenery, play around with it. Linger. Change your focus from “this is just foreplay for the big stuff”, a hurdle to get past, to enjoying the moment wholly and you will be very pleasantly rewarded.

Not willing to be penetrated doesn’t make us repressed desexualised people unworthy of love. Queer sex is as much about paying attention to individual desires as it is about moving away from heterosexist ideas. Let’s move the focus away from privileging various sex acts over others, and relish each other for the diversity of bodies and sexualities that we are.

Mendhi Henna has just moved to the Bay Area from Brisbane, Australia in the guise of starting grad school. Her real schemes remain semi-secret.

Photo

Tue, 14 Feb 2012 21:27:43 +1000

when consent and safewords go a little haywire [trigger warnings]

Sat, 04 Feb 2012 22:09:05 +1000

for kitty stryker’s safe/ward blog carnival.

So recently I had my first Domme. She ticked a lot of boxes for me: lanky, Joan-Jett-esque rockstar dyke style, wacky and open and also prone to checking her phone about fifteen gazillion times a day. We met at a non-kink meetup, chatted about kink and Crash Pad and relationships and other things, and when I overheard her tell a mutual friend that she wanted a sub, I wrote her a message volunteering.

I wasn’t fond of most pain, but I was keen on service: I had just worked out that my longtime inclination to show my admiration for someone by wanting to be their assistant likely had a kinky side. And I had wanted someone to be my Rockstar Domme for some time. She sounds like she could be the one!

only possible problem: she was a sadist. A hardcore one. And I wasn’t much of a masochist. At the same time, though, I hadn’t really had much experience - just a few flogging sessions which were pretty mixed - and I did want to train up my pain tolerance anyway so I figured I could give some things a go. I told her I was new, that I was highly into sensation play, and that I was nervous. She seemed to understand, and we had a grand couple of weeks swapping messages back and forth, talking about what we want and our fantasies and little fun things for the day.

Our first date went quite well: I was quaking in my boots, but fell for her hard once she went from FriendMode to DommeMode. With just my back and some choice words she had full control over me, and I was hooked and endorphic. We made plans to meet up again in a week or two, and I was in a happy haze for the next few days. I couldn’t get her out of my mind.

The next time we met up, we went to an all-women’s play party. She had told me the last time that she felt I needed to learn how to be patient, and often left me hanging while she attended to other people. A friend of hers was there, and they had quite a bit of play, and both of them took turns whacking me while I was tied to a cross. It was stingy, not my kind of pain, and I did start feeling really bad about feeling ignored: the physical pain was bearable, if not awesome, but I had a lifetime of being ignored and humanised and it was all starting to come back. Thankfully before it got too bad she would come back and pay attention to me, but it was still quite a ride of emotional waves.

After the party she drives us to her house, and she talks about wanting to dominate me her way. I keep a straight face, but inside I am freaking out. I don’t know if I can take her sadism, if I even want to go there. What happened to all the times we talked about taking it slow on my behalf? Where was my chance to give her service, which I specifically mentioned? What about me? She had control of the car though - this was late at night, too late and far away for public transport - and I had no idea what would have happened if I said no. I doubt she would have been terrible with me if I did refuse; maybe miffed but she would at least send me home - bummer, I missed out on sexytimes. And I really did want to serve her: I had a strong urge to please her. So I went along, without much protest.

Our session was really intense, especially for me having pretty much been thrown into the deep end. Collars, caning, rope, floggers, scratching till I was sore and possibly bruising. Some of it I actually quite enjoyed and would have gladly taken more of, but some of it I did more to keep her happy. More because I wanted her to be happy.

I asked her what happened to everything we talked about before, the service and the sensation play and the taking it slow. She said she had her needs too, that as a sadist she needed to get her pleasure too. I didn’t know what to say - I had no idea whether to keep going or stop or where I was meant to go.

I did feel pretty buzzed up and happy and good when it ended: endorphin rush, I guess. And she was really sweet and lovely with her aftercare, which I still appreciate and fondly remember to this day. We chilled for a while, she sent me home, and I dropped off to sleep around 4am back in my bed.

I was super exhausted the next day; I felt like I had run a marathon. My emotions were a wreck: I liked some of it, but not all. I wanted to please her, but I didn’t know if my body could take it very often, and I didn’t know how often she would want it. I didn’t know if I was ever going to get my desires fulfilled. Yet I felt like I could take on anything after taking on really quite a thrashing, and even craved some of the intense sensation; everything else felt rather dull in comparison. I didn’t know where to go. Was she safe? Is she good for me? Am I good for her? She called me to check in, I told her a few of my concerns, and she figured we could have a coffee and chat about it soon.

A night or two later I talk to my partner - a lovely but vanilla guy who has known me for years - about it, and he shows concern for the scars and bruising. He asks me a million questions about her: does she know first aid? how experienced is she? does she sterilize her tools? I thought he was being overbearing with his questions, but to keep him happy I passed them on to her. She was incredulous, and said that if he was really concerned he could ask her himself. We took this literally, and he sent her a similar message.

Soon after that, I get a series of text messages from her, firstly answering my guy’s Qs but with some annoyance (along the lines of “of course I know first aid! I did sterilise my stuff!”) and a note about how she feels he should trust my judgement more. And then she felt that our kinks don’t really match up, so we probably couldn’t play together anymore.

I was crushed. Here’s someone I really liked, who I thought had potential to go further, after many years of not really getting anywhere…and she dumped me.

A few days later I felt a sense of deep rage. She put me in a spot where I was extra vulnerable, where I didn’t feel safe saying no, and she specifically did things I had told her I wasn’t into or wasn’t confident of. I felt coerced into going along, but I felt like everything I had told her had gone to waste, that she was more concerned with her needs than mine. I wrote her a message saying all of that, saying how I was hurt and heartbroken because I had really given a lot of myself and felt like it wasn’t respected much, about how if being a sadist was so important to her she could have just turned me down from the start.

I didn’t want to say I was violated, I didn’t want to consider it assault - I have been raped and it was a totally different experience. At least here she listened to my safewords and actually *cared* about me as a human being, not like my rapist! but at the same time…I wasn’t sure. I felt like my innocence, naievity, and need to please was taken advantage of, and I had gone farther than I was comfortable.

Her response wasn’t much, mostly that she feels I am hurting now and that she would give me space. We still talk from time to time, though we haven’t had a chance to catch up recently.

Reading Kitty’s recent posts on consent culture and kink made me think and rethink this situation. It fitted some of the warning signs of a scene gone wrong - wishes gone unheard, feeling coerced, vulnerability being taken advantage of. She hit a big hard limit for me: dehumanisation and ignorance, trauma tied to many years of bullying and racism and oppression. And yet, and yet my biggest secret guilt:

I still like her.

I feel like I shouldn’t, that I shouldn’t still fancy someone who probably didn’t show me enough respect especially when in a particularly precarious situation. But she did many things right. She showed me tenderness and affection before and after, and still does really. She explained what was going on and let me make choices. She made sure I got home safe and hydrated and rested. She empathised with me when other people in the community were being racist fuckwits and (to my utter delight) didn’t try to exoticise me or quiz me about my foreign nature. She first met me as a regular person with a common interest who also happened to be kinky, more than just a sub, and she still remembers that and respects that.

She wasn’t malicious, and unlike my rapist she wasn’t completely selfish (my rapist actually did tell me she saw me as her fucktoy, without my input in the matter). I felt that she likely got ahead of herself and didn’t realise how far beyond my comfort zone it was.

I remembered a very similar situation that happened over a year before, a non-kinky setting, with the girl of my dreams, a situation that turned into such a nightmare that she avoids me now and I don’t know how to make things right. It was - to me - just a moment of online shenanigans, but it triggered something in her and she felt like we had gone too far. The fallout that unfolded not long later when she figured she couldn’t deal with being friendly with me anymore because of that one day in May was one of the worst times of my life; I had fallen into a deep pit of despair and horror and anguish, and have only just come out the other side.

I still miss her, the girl who I unintentionally violated just by words. And I still miss her, the woman who pushed me a little too far, unintentionally violating me with her desires. All of us not totally aware of our limits and reactions until it happens, all of us just wanting to have fun sexy delicious times with each other, all of us deeply desiring and attracted to each other - all of us eventually hurting each other.

I never quite know whether to consider this assault, a violation, what. I remember being quite horrified at Janet Hardy’s comments about “turning someone into a rapist without their consent” - as though the violator’s “consent” over their label was more important than the consent of the survivor. But I’ve been on possibly both sides of these, with people I know from outside contextes to be decent and friendly and lovely and caring, the sort of people who would take consent culture seriously and treat people with respect. But some things just don’t quite go right. and then you don’t know what to do.

Is it bad that I still want my former Domme to take me back as her sub? Or at least still count me amongst her bevy of ladysexyfriends? Should I be damming her to hell instead, outcasting her, refusing to see her again - just because that’s apparently what you do with someone who pushes your boundaries? Am I part of the problem? Do I have a right to an opinion or feeling on this, or am I being a hypocrite because just under two years ago someone else I deeply cared about saw in me what I saw in the Domme, felt the same way, had the same moral quandries?

I don’t know. I don’t really know.

Part of the 52 Pickup Project with mimartsong: marks and angles...

Thu, 19 Jan 2012 12:34:40 +1000

Part of the 52 Pickup Project with mimart
song: marks and angles by anechoix (cc-by-nc)

shuffle the cards that you’ve been dealt
cut them up paint them change them
make them the cards you’d rather have
make you the card you’d rather have

bluff, but don’t
use your sleight of hand to call on Jack
and Jack will come

painted razzle dazzle spades of
gloss and adornment
only Jack will take you as you made yourself to be
Jack adorns you and plays with you

playing with charms
placing bets on your pleasure
it’s all fun and games really,
is it not?

who needs to reveal their hand
when the mystery is what makes the game?

your move.

[erotica] the mentor and the protege

Mon, 19 Dec 2011 13:24:00 +1000

my first piece of erotic fiction in a while! I’ve long had a thing for mentor/protege dynamics and this was inspired by my first lady lover, whom I’ve wished was more of my creative mentor and was quite turned on by the idea of me being her canvas. Too bad she moved interstate!

Ropework, service, knife play, scratching, sensation play. F/f pairing.

Feel free to share, just keep the credits…written by Mendhi Henna.

“Hey you, come here - I need to test out something.”

My mentor, part mad scientist part brilliant artist all genius eccentric, calls me over. I am her loyal assistant, learning her skills and her ways as I help clean after her and set up before her. I am her protege by title, but mostly I am part of her work - her tools, her workshop, her canvas.

“Right. Now stand still while I tie some parts up.”

She ties some rope near the joints of my arms - the shoulder, the elbow, the wrist - and throws the other ends over a frame. My arms hang partly loose, like a puppet before it goes on stage.

My mentor examines the set up, though she doesn’t spend too much time wondering about my well-being. I am her crash test dummy, her prototype; since when did Dr Frankenstein ask his monster how he felt before turning on those switches? I trust that my mentor knows what she is doing - she did not just fall into genius, after all. This is hard work, and I am part of that work, and I am so so honoured that she even gives me any time of day at all.

My mentor pulls each end, one by one. My arms move as the rope wills, bending in odd shapes. The puppet is being warmed up - will there be a show soon? What is she making?

I would ask, but my mentor does not like being quizzed too much about what she is making while she is making it. Usually she only bothers to know the result when it is done. Putting too many expectations at the beginning only limits what you can do, she says. Her genius percolates in movement, in action, in rapid-cycle prototyping and rigorous testing and plenty of alphas and betas. This is her art, done through scientific method, her only hypothesis being what does this look like?

She pulls the two shoulder ropes sudden and hard - almost hard enough to lift me off the floor. I yelp, taken in surprise by my unexpected lift.

“Calm down,” says my mentor. “You’re just stretched a little. I didn’t tear your arms off.”

I would be happy to have my arms torn off for her if it helps her work.

She looks at me up and down, dangling ropebound from the frame, my white work shirt lifted to reveal just a small belt of belly, black pressed slacks and black shoes and black socks. My mentor insists on a proper uniform, general enough that you can add your own flair if you like to make it your own (my flair usually involves flowers or feathers in my hair) but still smart and presentable. When I dress for my daily work I go immediately into protege mode, ready to be productive, ready to be helpful. It clears away the bleariness of early mornings better than any shower or cup of coffee.

“Looks like it might have straightened you out a bit too - your posture’s better. But to have a better picture of things I need to be able to see your skin…”

She ties the ends of the ropes to the sides of the frames, stretching me in a tree-like shape. My feathery fascinator is slightly caught on the rope but it is merely a minor annoyance. I shake off my shoes in anticipation, but my position makes my helpfulness limited. Bummer. I wish I could just make my clothes melt on command.

My mentor comes to my feet and peels the socks away, tossing them to the furthest corner of the room while shifting my shoes to the side of the frame. My suspension results in me just barely grazing the floor by my tiptoes. I start keeping an eye on where everything goes; it is my job to clean up after.

My mentor stands and places her hand on the waistband of my slacks. Her long slender fingers, deft in fine metalwork and hours of computing and manipulation of fiber, press against my panties; I try to suppress a moan and end up biting my lower lip hard. I want her to take my slacks off, I want her to take my panties off. I want her to use her skillful fingers on me, inside me, deftly manipulating my clit and my cunt like she does her sculpture and ropework. I just do not have the authority or the nerve to tell her, so I just make myself more than useful, being ready for anything.

I feel a short moment of stronger pressure against my slit, almost like a very subtle rub. Does she know? Can she tell? Or am I just projecting my fantasy onto a relatively mundane task?

She undoes the button and zip of my slacks and swiftly pulls them down, leaving me hanging all in white, the cloth a contrast to my darker caramel skin but closer in colour to her pale pallor. I imagine the fabric to be the touch of her skin, and bite my lip harder.

My mentor unbuttons my shirt slowly, her fingers against my skin, an involuntary shudder as they brush against my relatively ample breasts. While we are both women, she somewhat older than I, I have the more feminine physique; hers is tall and slender like her fingers, easy to mistake for male in both appearance and demeanour. Indeed, in many ways we are opposites - her reserve and calm against my feisty vibrancy, reason against emotion, methodical against chaos. Which is why I am so fond of her: she teaches me ways I would not have known otherwise, guides me on being more balanced, shows me through example how one can parlay their gifts towards making real what starts as just an idea. She would not admit it herself, it’s outside her worldview, but she creates magic.

Her magic hands have opened my shirt, but she can’t take it off me - the ropes are in the way. After a few seconds of consideration she heads to her work table and returns with a freshly sharpened knife. My fear must have been obvious, because she shows a rare smile, and chuckles.

“Don’t worry - it’s not you I’m cutting up.”

She slices through the sleeves, splitting my shirt apart. I can just feel the tip of the knife grazing against my skin. There are white scars on my shoulders; I imagine them to be a tiny sliver of her skin.

I am now clad in my white bra and panties, though my fascinator - my one piece of flair - is still caught with the rope. My mentor moves behind me and removes the clip from my hair, clipping it onto the side of my shoe. Sometimes her artistry manifests in unusual ways. She runs a finger down my rope-straightened spine, and I can no longer keep biting; a soft moan escapes my bloody lip.

“Ah, sensitive, are you?”

She runs her hands across my arms, smoothly above the ties of rope. More moaning. I am slowly losing control over my reactions, though now I am worried about whether this would mark me as unprofessional. My long-held crush is now threatening to betray its secrecy.

“Hmm…possibly a sensual machine…an intriguing concept I hadn’t yet considered, but obvious now in hindsight…”

She reaches over my shoulders and unhooks the straps of my bra, then the bra completely. I long for her hands to cup my breasts, to replace the bare modesty my bra afforded me, but that did not seem to be what she hand in mind. Instead she keeps running her hands down my spine, ever so slowly, observing my shudders and moans and sways against the rope.

Her fingers reach into the waistband of my panties, which I am surprised aren’t already soaking wet. After teasing around my hips she yanks them down and pulls them under my feet, tossing them towards the same direction as the socks. Maybe. I’m losing the ability to sense direction.

I am now bare naked, exposed to the studio, truly a canvas now. This is not the first time I have been used as a model, not by a long shot, but this has been more intimate than usual. Normally I’m the one doing my own undressing, for starters.

My mentor unties the ropes from the frame and moves them around, watching my body jerk and shake along with every tug and slack. Just when I feel relaxed enough to let go, she does another sharp tug, knocking the air out of my lungs. Sometimes she would tug on more than one rope at once; sometimes she would pull and release slowly, both of us watching my arms moving across the vertical plane. Now was the puppet show.

After a few minutes of shifting around with rope, with my mentor keenly observing my body and taking some notes on her small pad that she keeps with her at all times, she shifts and pulls the ropes so that my arms are almost upright before tying the ropes firmly to the frame. I feel a stretch along the underside of my arms and shift my shoulders to adjust, which makes me float a few millimeters more.

My mentor disappears from view. All is quiet for what seems like forever. Is she just going to leave me hanging here? Does she want to know what happens when you leave someone hanging for a long time? Will she ever release me, not just my bindings but also my hunger for her?

I am so lost in reverie that I nearly scream in her ear in shock when she suddenly pops up in front of me.

“You need to learn how to stay more alert, even in strange contortions. Don’t get caught out.”

She is standing so close to me; I can almost feel her breathing. Her nose so close to mine, her eyes looking just under mine, her lips just so deliciously close…

I feel a soft tickle on my belly, on my sides. I try looking around to see the source, and spy a few stray feathers. My fascinator - she’s using it against me. Not that I mind; its gentle barely-there softness melts me like heated butter in this air-conditioned room. Who knew I had such a powerful agent of sensation sitting on my head the whole time?

The now-familiar fingers appear again, but only just; they give way to sharp claws cutting against my skin, somehow both painful and pleasurable. I am surprised to see that the claws are just my mentor’s nails; I didn’t think she kept her nails particularly sharp at all.

The nails’ sharpness seem as gentle as the fascinator feathers though after the scrape that runs across my body. It is partly blunt, like being scratched with a thin line of sandpaper, and almost unbearable. I gasp when I see the instrument scraping across my breasts: it is the edge of the knife, held in an angle to avoid slicing me, but still menacing in its sharpness.

“You said you weren’t going to cut me!” I exclaimed, though barely able to spit it out - my fears feel like they are stuck in a lump in my throat. My mentor looks up at me; I see annoyance in her eyes.

“And I still won’t. I’m your mentor; trust me to know what I am doing. And don’t fidget so much - the fear just makes things more dangerous. Breathe, and relax. Do your job and let me do mine.”

“I’m sorry, Ma’am,” I squeak out. I never meant to be disrespectful. I am at your service. My mentor puts her index finger against my lips.

“Hush. Just feel.”

She scrapes the knife the same way as earlier across my skin, over curves and through valleys, the sharp edge just so dangerously close. My nipples go erect as the knife runs over them; the hairs on my belly rise with goosebumps. Fear, arousal, anticipation, melt, intense, everything mixing under my skin; I am in my body and yet also outside it; pleasure and pain intertwine and wrap around me like the ropes around my arms; sensations new to me overtake all my other senses; I am floating higher up the rope I am melted and alert and cut and whole and…

My legs are damp, my cunt soaking, my long-held lust and desire and crush now plain to see. I am too caught up in the knife’s edge of ecstasy to worry about what my mentor would make of this.

She doesn’t seem to mind though, if her hand running up one thigh and onto my cunt are any indication.

My mentor pays close attention to the knife running across the edges of the rope. Her fingers on my cunt seem to move on autopilot, stroking and scratching each lip and fold and my clit hungry for attention. She plays with my clit with her limber fingers and sharp nails, rolling and squeezing and nearly cutting it open.

I am lost in touch, hot and wet, my body tight and desirous to receive more and more and more.

I do not know if it is the knife being scraped across my collarbone or her fingers entering my cunt that made me gush more, but I am definitely soaked now.

Hot and wet and sharp and scrape and fear and arousal and desire and crush and service and tight and bound and taut and float and just so lost between the scraping knife and the scratching of fingernails and the tug of the rope and the stretch of muscle and the rolling of cunt in long slender deft craft fingers…

Jerks of explosive orgasm cause me to tug against the rope and bounce away from my mentor’s hands. I release a waterfall as my skin feels like a torrent of golden stars. The scratches on me sting with heat; the ropes burn with their firm grip. Indeed it is only the snug pull of the ropes that is keeping me upright; there was no way I could have stayed alert.

My mentor puts the knife away in the pocket of her tight black slacks and places her cum-soaked hands on my sides. She kisses me; I hungrily kiss back, feeling like I could absorb some of that long-awaited genius and sexual prowess through our mouths and lips and tongues, like a baby bird feeding from the mouth of its mother. Thanks to her I was flying.

“You’ve done well.”

My mentor wipes her hands on my back before undoing the ropes. The release from the frame brings relief, but also a tinge of sadness; canvas time is over. Who knows when or what her next experiment would be, her next exploration?

She hands the rope to me and makes sure I am able to stand steady - if bare naked and sopping wet - before heading to her workstation, throwing me a small square towel, just enough to cover my face.

“Now clean up - I don’t want a mess left around here.”

I spot my socks and panties immediately at the corner, the rest of my clothes by the frame. I smile and get back to work.

“Yes Ma’am.”

geez it's been a while, hello

Wed, 14 Dec 2011 16:12:37 +1000

geez it's been a while, hello:

I ran away from Tumblr and consequently abandoned this blog in favour of my Fetlife profile. daaw. But I am putting a website together, so maybe this blog could be put to good use ;)

creatrixtiara: lucypaw: blocky-sheep: lizardwalk: searching4g...

Wed, 14 Sep 2011 10:06:48 +1000

creatrixtiara:

lucypaw:

blocky-sheep:

lizardwalk:

searching4glamour:

radicalqueery:

lingeriemen:

http://www.hommemystere.com.au/

NEEDS TO BE ON MY BLOG AND YOURS AND EVERYONE’S

Personally I think that http://xdress.com/ generally looks better and has better pics….

Though I like that this is “lingerie for men” rather than assuming someone wearing it is “crossdressing”. Though the australian place seems to assume heterosexuality more so idk.

omg the pictures at xdress. (bites lip)

It’s really nice looking lingerie, too.

Oh my.

ZOMG AWESOME

Update on the letter I sent to The Weekend Australian Magazine & The Big Issue about the online porn industry

Wed, 14 Sep 2011 09:57:15 +1000

Update on the letter I sent to The Weekend Australian Magazine & The Big Issue about the online porn industry:

- The Big Issue replied!

They thanked me for writing in and sharing my perspective. Huzzah :)

now to see if the Weekend Australian Magazine will respond. Seems to be a week of porn panic - The Monthly and Q&A got into it too. sigh.

A letter to The Weekend Australian Magazine in response to this article about the online porn industry.

Mon, 12 Sep 2011 11:52:22 +1000

A letter to The Weekend Australian Magazine in response to this article about the online porn industry.:

(also CC’d to The Big Issue Australia as they republished a quote from there, which is where I first heard of it.)

***

Dear The Australian and The Big Issue,

I recently picked up The Big Issue #389 and in their Hearsay section they quoted a Weekend Australian Magazine article citing Australian porn stars who claim that the industry is full of fakeness, STIs, drugs, and people with abuse histories. I would like to chime in as someone based in Brisbane who has shot for porn and had a very different experience.

Recently I was in San Francisco and had the opportunity to perform for the Crash Pad Series (http://crashpadseries.com), an indie queer porn website whose performers and scenes span a wide range of races, bodies, sexualities, genders, and sexual interests. It is a cornerstone of an industry that is known for authenticity, freedom of sexual expression, and treating performers with respect. I have a background in performance art and have done erotic pieces before, but had never created porn asides from a self-shoot (available on QueerPorn.TV), so I was rather nervous coming in.

I found the experience highly enjoyable and the working conditions top-notch - better even than some conventional/”vanilla” jobs I have done! Everyone was friendly and open, answering questions with patience and treating my co-star and I like good friends. We were given full freedom to decide what happens in our scene, taking into account both our turn-ons and our boundaries, and my co-star and I got to plan out a fun unusual scene that we would both enjoy. Direction was minimal and nothing was faked - every reaction and orgasm was real. What was especially heartening for me personally was that despite being a racial/cultural minority (South Asian), I did not have to exotify myself or play up to a stereotype; I was allowed to perform however I liked.

Unlike stereotypes and assumptions, porn professionals are often very safe with STIs as they get checked regularly. In San Francisco and the queer porn scene especially, there is a strong push towards representing safe sex methods on screen, including safer sex between non-heterosexual couples (the scene I shot does include safe-sex barriers). There are also regular discussions amongst porn professionals, producers, viewers, and other people of interest online and in person about making porn more ethical, fair pay and working conditions, fair representation of diversity, sex-positivity, and so on. While in San Francisco I had the honour of assisting and working with various people who are or have been porn professionals not just in San Francisco but also in more mainstream markets like Los Angeles, and they talked to me about the pros and cons of the different markets, how the experiences differ, and how they are also similar - such as regular testing (which most of the time the performers get compensated for) and authentic creativity.

I was disappointed and disheartened to read a quote that played up to outdated stereotypes without casting a wider net for a range of responses. Yes, there are many things that are problematic about the various porn and sex industries around the world - but much of them are issues that affect other industries as well. Other industries also have to deal with abusive employers, unfair work conditions, people who have to fake it through the job - and yet when it comes to the sex industry it’s assumed that these issues are *part and parcel* of the industry specifically rather than reflective of overarching systemic problems. There are plenty of people who are working hard towards increasing education and visibility of authentic ethical porn in all forms, as well as combating issues that affect the world of sexuality (such as abuse) - I would recommend checking out the work of Jiz Lee, Shine Louise Houston, Dr Carol Queen, Tristan Taormino, my co-star Kitty Stryker, and their peers for more information and perspective.

And I would also like to invite you to check out the Crash Pad Series to see the wider possibilities of porn - including my first scene!

Sincerely,
Mendhi Henna

Crash Pad Series: Mendhi Henna

Thu, 11 Aug 2011 06:05:26 +1000

Crash Pad Series: Mendhi Henna:

a sensual machine
Libra | Switchy Pillow Princess| Polyamorous with a lifelong companion <3

Mendhi was born a world traveller, and travellers always appreciate a place to crash. She’s on an adventure of creative sexytimes – and she’s looking forward to the local flavour of hospitality.

Interests
About me: Mendhi is never one to stick to boundaries – local and foreign, innocent and corrupted, sticking out and blending in. Art is her fetish and she wants to be your canvas for debauchery. Technosexual and able to get her kicks from active imagination alone (though vibrators do help), Mendhi is a total pleasure slut and revels in being pampered, caressed, cuddled, consumed, and relished in all her glory. Pay her some attention and she’ll show you some lusciousness too – perhaps as an art piece.

Turn-ons: Redheads, queer voices, being eaten/licked/consumed, being an art piece, feathers, velvet, subtle erotic fiction, rock chicks, being seduced, gender-benders, not being called “the exotic other”

Would like to meet: Other arty sexy people, cuddlesluts, and people who will help her set the world record for longest time spent being eaten out.

How do you identify? What are your sexual interests? queer, mostly lesbian, geek, creative sexytimes, silly, cuddles, pleasure, sensation, poly, flexible, attention whore

Come visit me and Kitty play sometime… <3

as requested on facebook: a tale of craigslist missed connections

Fri, 05 Aug 2011 12:01:20 +1000

which actually worked out for me!

Backstory: Remember A, the cute gawky redhead at Velvet who wanted to play with me but had a scarily possessive date? And how we were supposed to swap contact details but never managed to? Well I posted callouts for her on Facebook and Fetlife but didn’t get anywhere, and I couldn’t seem to find people who knew her. So on a whim I wrote a post om CLMC describing her and asking her to email me if she reads this. I didn’t think it’d work - it’s too random and vague and who knows if she was still interested.

She replied the next day!

She remembered my name (though was a bit dubious on the spelling), remembered my prop, remembered the plan to swap contact details. I happened to be sick that week (bah) so any shenanigans would have to wait, but we made plans to meet up at Up Your Alley (a mini Folsom Street Fair, a kink street festival) a coming weekend.

(I have this odd feeling that we probably ran into each other earlier than that but I don’t remember)

So we did! We checked out UYA earlier in the day, catching up with people we’ve met elsewhere and playing around with rabbit-fur floggers & mitts (AHHHH SO SOFT I WISH I COULD BRING THEM TO AUSLAND) and looking at all the half-naked men in the crowd.

We nuzzled up in a corner and, after some cute affectionate hair-caressing and sweet talk, moved on from Velvet’s kisses to fuller-on making out. Now here’s the thing with UYA:

Half-naked or naked men walking around with their dicks out, maybe making out or playing Naked Twister or flogging or whatever: Meh.
Two fully-clothed chicks making out: BOOM! CAMERAS!

Well I caught one off the corner of my eye anyway but was too slow to respond. So if you see a photo of a redhead and a brown girl lip-locked at Dore Alley…well you know who we are now.

Sadly, for a kink festival, there didn’t seem to be a spot where we could hide and keep going (without worrying about cameras; I think no one would have minded if we had sex right there in the middle of the street!), none that I was aware off anyhow. A had a kite festival to go to, so I basically invited myself over to her place, which she agreed to, so long as we were both still OK with it after a while.

We walked over to the train station to drop her off, hand-holding and kissing and nuzzling the whole time, looking and feeling like new lovers. How very exciting - and for longer than a day, even, with potential for more! It took a LONG time to finally let A go and catch her train…not that she seemed to be in any particular hurry.

Well it turned out that we both ended up napping afterwards and by the time we got back from the day it was too late to make it over or do anything. But we did manage to catch up again the next day for a project at the Center for Sex and Culture - again with the kissing and nuzzling and caressing. Ha, it’s been a while since I’d been able to do that with someone new that didn’t end up being just a one-night (or one-day) stand.

I had an appointment at her side of the Bay so I went there earlier in the day to explore. It’s pretty sleepy and quiet, not much to do for more than a few hours, and I became rather bummed out by some personal drama earlier in the day so ended up drifting rather than really taking anything in. I did manage to drop in to Feelmore510, a gorgeous adult gallery/sex shop with a friendly and passionate manager (Nenna), and got some supplies for a possible future encounter - after all, A and I were going to meet up later that night, and I could really use a cuddle by that point.

I was looking forward to meeting A later that evening after my appointment, but there was a mixup over the venue, and I was half-seething half-praying to God to at least have some mercy on me, I’ve already had enough for a bad day. So instead of a poetry slam (who already had my entry fee, ha) I got back on the train to town - to a rope munch.
And found A shyly in the corner, watching her “sparkly unicorn” friends (such an awesome troupe) getting all tied up.

The nuzzling, kissing, and cuddling didn’t take too long to start up again.
(Seriously. The cute could kill you.)

This time I suggested I bring her home, since it was getting late and we were just a few blocks away from where I stayed. I made a promise to one of A’s sparkly unicorn friends (who had given her a ride) to take good care of her, bought both of us dinner, and examined a table with the Map of Human Sexuality on it.

That was plenty of motivation to head back to the warehouse and do our own mapping.
After watching the tango classes downstairs, we ambled back to my (messy, tiny) room, for a bit of our own tango.

A is a private person, and our lovely finally-realised climax to what started at Velvet had a soft, slow, quiet, intimate quality, peppered with lots of meows and nose-beeps and Internet fangirling. So I’ll keep specific details on the down low.
But there was quite a puddle on the bed later (no glitter this time, unfortunately), and the Feelmore510 purchases were put to good use.

I’ll miss her when I have to go. She’s only just moved to town and it’s always just when things are getting really exciting that it is about to end. (hey, just like sex, woo.)
But I hope there’s more soft sweet nuzzling, kissing, meows. Take them in when we can.

tranquality: amosmac: Wyatt Riot is so cute. He has glitter...

Thu, 28 Jul 2011 10:40:04 +1000

tranquality:

amosmac:

Wyatt Riot is so cute. He has glitter all over his lips. And he’s laughing about it.

Photographed in my old photo studio in San Francisco.

© Amos Mac

This is so cute.

daaaaaaaaw

UPDATED CALLOUT: Sex Protests: Make a Statement

Thu, 28 Jul 2011 10:38:34 +1000

UPDATED CALLOUT: Sex Protests: Make a Statement:

creatrixtiara:

01 August 2011
10am - 1pm and 5:30pm to 8:30pm
Center for Sex and Culture, 1349 Mission St, San Francisco, California

A certain lingerie company in Australia held a photo competition, and promoted it with ad copy that said that their idea of the “ideal woman” included, amongst other (rather limiting things), “pale skin”.

Yours truly, being dark-skinned, was miffed - and considered entering the contest by modelling their lingerie while holding protest signs speaking up against discrimination.
That didn’t quite happen…but we’re making it happen h ere in San Francisco.

Creatrix Tiara, the Sex-Positive Photo Project, and the Center for Sex and Culture invite you to
MAKE A STATEMENT
about sex positivity
about sex or gender identity
about discrimination and stereotypes
about sexual violence
about slut-shaming
about sexual and sex worker rights

- about anything to do with sexuality that you feel strongly about.

The shoots will be lingerie/fashion magazine style, so BYO sexy clothing (whatever feels sexy and comfortable to you).
There will be posterboards and markers, but do bring your own signs if you have them.

NEW! Two sessions: 10am to 1pm and 5:30pm to 8:30pm
First come first serve
Feel free to bring your own camera if you want to shoot yourself too
All genders and sexualities welcome

Shoots by Shilo McCabe of the Sex-Positive Photo Project (http://thesexpositivephotoproject.blogspot.com/)
Hosted by the Center for Sex and Culture (http://www.sexandculture.o rg/)
Event picture by Phoenix (http://phoebeloomes.blogsp ot.com/2010/05/sex-protests.html)

My Crash Pad episode with Kitty Stryker is up!

Thu, 28 Jul 2011 10:18:27 +1000

My Crash Pad episode with Kitty Stryker is up!:

Kitty and Mendhi

Season 15 Episode 104 Starring: Kitty Stryker and Mendhi Henna

Kitty and Mendhi

Mendhi Henna & Kitty Stryker are the cat’s meow.

“Oh, kitty cats. Don’t you just hate in when you’re trying to do something and they just won’t leave you alone? And they keep rubbing up against you and demanding attention? And when you won’t give it to them, they cuff you to the bed, blindfold you, tease you with a feather toy and make you cum with a vibrator? Well, maybe that last part isn’t so bad, when the cat in question is Kitty Stryker. In fact, she’s such a good little pet Mendhi Henna sees fit to reward her with a treat.” -Keymaster

[tippi, from satisfaction] feathers. my weakness and my glory....

Mon, 25 Jul 2011 03:10:00 +1000

[tippi, from satisfaction]

feathers. my weakness and my glory. soft, gentle, just so quietly electric and powerful.

jsex: creatrixtiara: Reading Time; American Psycho (by Liandra...

Sun, 24 Jul 2011 16:39:33 +1000

jsex:

creatrixtiara:

Reading Time; American Psycho (by Liandra Dahl)

HOW IS SHE STILL READING WITH HOT CHICK STRADDLING AND CARESSING HER ZOMGS

lolol.

all i gotta say is that i am very easily distracted with sexy time and i would’ve been incapable of reading around the 5:30 mark…

yeah this has happened to me before. reading/studying for finals. ugh.

hahahaha.

I have distracted someone studying with sexytimes before - quite good fun ;)

lumosnoxobliviate: Kristen Stewart is such a lesbian, she even...

Sun, 24 Jul 2011 16:38:35 +1000

lumosnoxobliviate:

Kristen Stewart is such a lesbian, she even manages to turn snow white dykey.

a dyke Snow White would be pretty kick-ass actually.

/still needs to get around to watching The Runaways, since it has her idea of Sexiest Sex Scene ever

a touch of velvet

Sun, 24 Jul 2011 16:36:57 +1000

Last night was a challenge, of sorts, that I set myself a while ago: go to a predominantly ladies-only play party - Velvet in Mission Control - and have a good time, whatever you do.

A challenge, because the first time I ever went to a play party, just as my new-found sexual rebellion was blossoming (and under a different name), I was abused and taken advantaged of and assaulted. Ladies-only, supposedly safe from the predatorial gender, branded as “a good place for other ladies to try it out with another woman especially as a beginner” - and yet when I got preyed on even the host wouldn’t bat an eye. I ended up abandoning that persona, and everything I’d done in research, and having to start over from the beginning after some time regaining my confidence - partly fueled by a slut-like need to change the answer for “Have you ever slept with someone of the same sex” to “Yes and I LOVED IT”.

But I was determined to not let this stop me. Not this experience, not some recent drama from back home threatening to derail me, not any apprehension or fear. Even if all I did was sit in friendly conversation, I wanted to return happy and pleased, able to say “yes, I’ve been to a women’s play party, and I enjoyed myself.”

Oh boy (or girl?) did I ever.

What Mattered

There were some crucial aspects that made a hell of a lot of difference. Firstly, when I asked the organisers about their policy surrounding abuse (and telling them my story), they were very understanding and gave me a thorough answer of what they’d do in such a situation. This gave me confidence that, unlike the organiser of the first party, they would take me seriously and with compassion if anything should go wrong.

Velvet had a queer sensibility to it - besides women, the party was also open to other gender minorities: trans people (male and female), the intersexed, the genderqueer, essentially anyone that was not a cis male. The attendees ranged from straight-but-curious to butch & femme to just sexual to politically queer, everyone interacting with each other openly. In the other play party, which was implicitly bio-women only, I felt like none of them would have known was “queer” meant if it whacked them on the head. Most of the women there were straight wives of swinger couples, uninvolved or uninterested in queer politics - hell I was the only non-White person there. At Velvet there was a mix of backgrounds and races; sluttery crosses boundaries, after all.

I had half of my full-body henna rose vine done - the right leg and belly - and I wanted to show it off, so I didn’t end up wearing a lot. I wore my red & black bustier, banged-up after a number of performances but still wearable (even if troublesome to hook up) and the belt-like net miniskirt that I obtained for Kinky Salon a week ago, which made me feel like a rousing sexpot as soon as I tried it on. I had bought new shows that afternoon to show off the henna on my foot (my other shoes were covered) but they were a mistake - poor design meant spokes wounding the top of my feet and toes, and eventually I trekked half the way barefoot. Either I poke the bottom of my feet with glass, or the top with the sandals…oh well.

Oh and I brought my purple feather tickler too. The one that became charged with Sex Goddess Worship Power at Trickster Salon the first time I went to Mission Control. I waved it three times for good luck. At the very least it would be a good conversation starter.

And it was! Its presence intrigued people and its soft edges gave sweet pleasure to anyone within contact. It was a good way to get a smile, and also a sneaky way for me to show off my henna (using the feather tickler as pointer) while also getting some sweetness of my own. And in one case…it nearly brought me a playmate.

But I’ll get back to her in a sec.

At the Start

The night started off with Allison Moon’s presentation on Girlsex 101. It wasn’t really super-beginner per se - it was assumed that everyone in the room had at least one experience with a woman, or at least themselves - but it gave some really useful but often overlooked information on how to make girlsex even more fun and pleasurable. She was well-knowledgeable and quite thorough given her time limit; moreso than the first play party’s (pathetic) attempt at an “introduction”. She was very loving and affectionate to her demo model that it made us all go “aww”, and she also gave us some prize tricks - like using the wristband area of a latex glove as an instant dental dam (“worth the price of admission!” yelled one), bracing your hands and neck if they’re getting tired, and releasing your voice as a means of releasing pleasure and communicating with your partner. I certainly have picked up plenty more than I would have thought of…and was quite eager to give them a go. If I could find someone to try them on.

Velvet is a relatively new party, and the room had a good number of newcomers - first-timers and those that may have come to one other Velvet or been to the space for other reasons (like myself). This meant that everyone was pretty much on an even keel: there wasn’t a wide chasm between the “regulars” and the “newbies”. Everyone was very friendly, and we got to chatting immediately; the newly-opened dungeon turned into our main social room, where we watched top-notch rope expert Madame Butterfly tie R up in a lush variety of self-made silk ropes, had a little fun with S’s hand-me-down spanking crop (it was given to her randomly at a party one time), and tried to catch the latecomers up on Allison’s class - which was a bit difficult given that we didn’t really have a ready body model at the time and we still were in the semi-awkward-but-friendly stage. Oh well.

To my surprise I ran into someone from back in Ausland who actually had lived very close to me and knew many of the same people - including some that were giving me grief from a thousand miles away. She had faced something similar and understood the headache of being temporarily disliked by a very tight small web, and reassured me that things aren’t necessarily as bad as I imagined and they’ll work themselves out. It was great to find someone who could really empathise - and what a magic coincidence that it was someone from the same social circle! Thanks H, you are fabulous.

Red for Me

Earlier I’d mentioned something about the feather tickler bringing me a new playmate - or almost. Cute awkward friendly redhead, I’d seen A before at a BDSM novices night and we’d recognised each other. She was at Velvet as someone’s “pet” - someone she’d only met a week ago, doing so as a favour in return for flaking out on her. A’s “owner” was nowhere to be seen, and she was mostly hanging out with us “Dungeon Social” people and her French-born friend…and me.

Our mutual silliness and awkwardness meant a very compatible flirting style, and soon I cottoned on that A did like me (and not just that she was very responsive to the tickler!) We talked a bit about getting together, and while she was very keen to spend time with me she was worried her “owner” would mind. It was pretty evident though that she was way more into me than her “owner” - she was willing to take the collar off, kept coming to me rather than her, and even while she and her “owner” were cuddling she kept reaching for me, looking at me, longing for my hands rather than hers. We kissed in the group sex bedroom - not once but two different times, passionately so, eager to go further, but neither of us wanting to disrespect her date.

Personally I felt rather odd about the date - she didn’t seem to care about A but got rather possessive and aloof about the idea of A having her own fun. I asked her if I could borrow A for a while; she said “that’ll cost you $300”. I thought she was kidding, but a little while later A told me her “owner” wanted to charge me roughly that much because I kissed her! (Thank goodness she never claimed this from me.) This didn’t seem like what I knew of ethical owners and pets, taking ownership because they care about their pet’s welfare and so they keep careful watch (here’s a better example from Fleur de Lis SF) - the only time she ever popped up was to make sure someone like me didn’t have a chance at stealing her “pet”. I used to be the jealous sort, which is never a good idea, and whenever I encounter someone with a jealous possessive partner it always spells trouble. It would have been one thing if A and this other person were able to negotiate limits and boundaries, with A’s date respecting her choices more, but my gut tells me hardly anything was talked about beyond “you owe me for flaking out, here’s my collar”.

We never did manage to swap contact details to play some other time, and searching for her is proving to be tricky. I do hope A managed to find the freedom she wanted, at least. I would love to find A again and pick up where we left off - there was a definite chemistry and desire there that would be shameful to waste. A, if you’re reading this, or if you know someone who could be A - please say hi, gorgeous.

A Pile of Purple

Halfway through the night Velvet’s organiser, Bix, told us about a Velvet tradition: the Girlpile. Everyone goes to the group sex room at the back - next to the dungeon, a lush red and black room with plenty of beds and cushion space, currently more used as a cafe than a makeout spot - and pile up on top of each other. Then we’ll see what happens!

No one seemed to be in a great rush to make a girlpile, which was rather disappointing. In fact, by the time we got to the room, I was the only one on the bed ready for a pileon. There had been a few couples (and threesomes, and one foursome) already well into their sex time by the time we were there, but most people were either lingering around chatting or standing by the wall watching.

“Come on,” I said to the bystanders across me. “Who’s going to join me in this girlpile?”

Up comes J, a petite ashen-haired bespectacled lass in a purple corset and…well, she had a blue skirt, but after a joint stripoff (when I took off my bustier) she tucked that away too. She too was part of the Dungeon Social, one of the people we tried to give the Cliff Notes version of Girlsex 101 to. She sits next to me, shoulder to shoulder, almost back to back like compadres in crime-fighting.

“I’ll join you.”

We chill for a while, waiting for other people to join us, but it’s clear that either they’re shy or more interested in watching. I look around and ask: “Anyone here you find interesting?”

“You’re pretty interesting - you’re gorgeous.”

Her sweet compliment softens me; we tenderly hold hands and kiss, like new lovers in flower meadows. She spends a lot of time stroking me, caressing me, touching every inch of my skin with care and love and pleasure - including my breasts, which ached for touch.

“Large, magnificent, and fun to play with!”

I was aware of the other people watching, and by this point we were surrounded by a few other horny couples and groups using my belly and shoulder as temporary pillows (did this count as an orgy?). None of it bothered me too much - I was soaking in J’s pampering, running her hands on every inch of me while she suckled on my breasts and I drew breath in deep desire.

I remembered Allison’s first lesson about voice. I’ve never been particularly noisy in sex, even though I can’t remember consciously choosing to be quiet. I’ve always been more of a breather, inhaling and exhaling strongly as my body quivers and buckles with pre-orgasmic touch. I made some effort to be more vocal, though I was probably drowned out by the screams and yelps around me - ah, didn’t matter, I was too busy feeling luxurious.

J moved down to my vulva and my body buckled against her hand, getting wet, straining hard to burst out of my red panties. I asked her if I could take them off; she offered to do so. Now I was clad only in my miniskirt (quite a sight), my body surrendered to her deft luscious fingers.

Then the voice came. Her fingers around my lips, my clit, into me, pressing inside and around and upon me, while we kissed and I stroked her seemingly-innocent face (ha!) and we held on to skin and breast and hand. The further she went, the more my voice was pushed out of me…and soon I heard myself moaning and squealing, primal and powerful and also powerless. I warned her I would get wet, and did; gushing strongly, floating in deep strong orgasmic waves, somehow both within my body and floating outside.

I asked her what I could do for her. She asked me to stroke her lower back - it was a sensitive spot for her. Off went her corset; she said she felt sexy in it so I let her keep it on, but truly she was sexy no matter what. Her breasts, though smaller than mine, were no less great to play with. I held her close to me, our mouths and lips and tongues together, me stroking her back and ever so softly brushing the pads of my fingers against her skin, up and around her sides, barely touching. Her moans were like cries, and a few times I was worried I was hurting her, but she kept affirming her delight and rolled more into me as I returned her earlier generousity.

then the group next to us left us with a vibrator; I’m not sure what brand, but it was white and about the same look and feel of a bowling pin. It was free-for-all, so we decided to make use of it. I used it up and down her back, and J told me that I could go lower, so I did; around her black-panty ass, around to her vulva, herself pulsing as strongly as the vibrator did.

We played around with the vibrator on her body for a while, and then decided to experiment with something that turned out to be the most delicious discovery. We placed the vibrator between ourselves, between our hot throbbing crotches, and straddled each other, find the sweet spot of comfortable seating and deep vibration.

The effect was immense, as told by how tightly we held on to each other’s hands. Our bodies rocking against each other and cradling each other, leg to leg and pelvis to pelvis and girl to girl; the vibrator buzzing between us, sending both of us to simultaneous ecstacy; the moans getting louder and louder, me feeling a major kick in my stomach - the kick of pleasure nerves turned on major - and shouting “OH FUCK oh FUUUUUUCK”, never before done. My body was doing things unfamiliar but delectable, in sync to J’s; we were orgasming close to the same time, pleasure building in between like a feedback loop.

Once we were tired out from the vibrator we lay next to each other - there was more space now - softly making out and enjoying each other’s glow. I was super relaxed and would have happily cuddled J to sleep then and there; however, we couldn’t stay in Mission Control forever (you’d think they’d let us do overnight! …do they?) and J did have a job to get to in the morning. But this was lovely. this was beautiful, and delicious, and amazing.

And it totally made up for that one night of horror, and all the pain thereafter.

A and J, and everyone else who gave me good conversation or cuddles or gentle caresses or even a glass of wine. Velvet and the crew. Mission Control. Thank you for a brilliant, excellent, glory-filled night. Just what I wanted and just what I needed.

(though I still hunger for more; ah, you greedy greedy thing!)

afrotitty: I am so proud of this photo. Beautiful fat, Brown,...

Sun, 24 Jul 2011 15:55:41 +1000

afrotitty:

I am so proud of this photo. Beautiful fat, Brown, femme bodies. Adorned, touching.