Metaphorically speaking… and fire play

I read this on a T-shirt recently…

Your use of literally makes me figuratively insane

Ha!  Funny!  Speaking of funny, you know in the beginning, way back on blog one, I said:

My thought is to make a public diary, a stream of observations as they come to me, and not put any ego into its success.. ( ha! – speaking of ideas doomed to failure).

Metaphorically speaking, I think I may have turned a lovely afternoon stroll into structured, classroom field trip. You, my dear readers, who came along to share this journey with me, I wonder, are we still just walking and stopping to notice the birds and trees?   Or have I turned this into yet another lecture as I so often do?

Now class, this beautiful specimen is is a woody perennial flowering plant of the genus Rosa, in the family Rosaceae, more commonly known as a rose.. come sample its fragrance..

Yeah, I do that – but today I will not. Let’s get back, metaphorically speaking to our stroll in the woods.  We now return you to our regular blog, already in progress…


My original goal was to be more of a diary, than a diatribe.  Today, let’s return to the diary part of this shall we?   I was asked yesterday for my thoughts on a training collar, and I am going to post on that, but not today. For my blog today, let’s go back to the diary format.. where we can wander for a while, viewing what its like, living with X.


AN EVENING OF FUN!!!

We talked about going to Feel Me Breath yesterday.   Now, since my daughter went to College,  splurging on a bag of chips and some dip is a celebration.  Things are freakin tight, financially speaking.  So I didn’t really didn’t want to spend the money, especially after we had just blown big bucks on the North East Power exchange.  It has however, been quite a while since we left home with its paper walls and sounds of neighbors living their normal lives.  It would be nice, I thought, to get into a really nice scene.  Oh, I give the occasional smack on the butt, or swat with a belt, but a really nice drawn out scene with all the sounds of leather and moans is something I would rather do in a Dungeon.

So, since we would be up late, I chose to snuggle and nap a couple hours, and then it was up for a quick dinner.  Its important to have a little energy and digestion in place before we deplete the body of all its loverly chemicals.

Izrina wanted to go full on, floggers, single tail, and then fire on top of it.  It  been a while since I got really sadistic, and I was worried that when I put the alcohol over fresh single tail marks, and then set her on fire, well, I had no doubt she’d go under but was she ready for that much sadism?   She assured me that she was..

So we negotiated with FMB for a space in the dungeon where I could set up a fire station right next to the back side of a double Saint Andrews cross, and a table for my fire source and fuel.  In effect, my own little section, ready for this intense scene we had planned.  I planned to take my time.. we had all night.  I figured two hours of play, two hours of aftercare..  I could feed her sugar laden cookies afterward to rebuild her strength.

A WONDERFUL SCENE

My slave stripped, revealing plenty o flesh for me to work my sadist pleasures upon. I drew leather cuffs snug over her wrists.. just tight enough that should she collapse, she would not drop to the floor, but loose enough to allow circulation.

I led her by a handful of hair to the cross, and pushed her roughly, face first into it.  Scratches down her back, light slaps to her ass. Reaching around from behind, breath on her neck, pinches to her nipples.

I presented my flogger, the instrument of her pain and pleasure.  She kissed it, blessing it for her submission, and so it began.  A soft low growl of a whisper in her ear, Master assuring her that she belonged to me, and I would have my way with my property.  That she would give herself to me completely, submitting her pain as a sacrifice, a testament of her loyalty and devotion to my will.  Yes Master! she replied and the first fall of the flogger kissed her bare back in return.

One strike followed another, my focus a laser on that which extended from my hand.  Right hand, swinging from the left, target is the left shoulder blade, a natural back hand swing, contact area tight, no straying towards the arm or spine, contact good.. my swing proceeds in the natural figure eight of a traditional flogger swing.. down and around and back up for a down stroke on the right shoulder blade.

Now my focus is stronger, a momentary glance at the muscles in her neck.. is she tense?  Harder or stronger this time?  Right hand, swing from the right, less time to correct my strike area, VERY focused.  It is more difficult to control the strike area than with a back-hand from the other side… flogger completes the figure eight circle, its many leather tails whistling through the air now in a downward stroke towards her right shoulder using my right hand..and makes good contact.. good speed, tight impact box, no stray towards the spine or arm…

Now is when the crowd melts away.  It is just me, the flogger, and she who is my canvas.  And I paint her.  I paint in in soft pinks, her back and ass showing the first color of this scene.  I paused.. a moment to touch her back, to connect..to FEEL her.  I need to sense what she is feeling.. and to draw my nails down her warm and now very sensitive back.  THUNK, my heavy flogger with the fat, soft tails has had his way with her and now it is Sting’s turn.

Again the focus, the desire to create just the sensations I plan, with precise hits of a speed and force that I think she is ready for.  It’s the endorphin ladder, the stairway to heaven, the method that triggers the body’s chemicals until your charge isn’t just in subspace, they a gone.. completely and totally gone.. they are flying.

Now it was the quirt.  A quirt is two leather straps at the end of a whip like handle that curve in the throw, and uncoiling about the same, but the sound is not like the crack of a single tail.  Its leather on leather on flesh.  The first strap strikes flesh and stops, then the second strap slaps into the first with a wonderful snapping noise – the sound of two pieces of leather coming together quite suddenly.  The sound is as terrifying as is the potential for long lasting bruises, but I go slow, light, enjoying the sound more than the potential, because I know we still have the single tail to bring forth.

I was anxious to get to the single tail.  They are something to not be trifled with.  All of the focus you bring to a flogger is nothing compared to the single tail.  With a tail, you are not just focused on the two dimensions, the strike zone, but also on the third dimension, the depth of your strike.   Strike too close and you can strike higher than expected.  Strike from too far away and it can crack without touching, that loud scary crack it makes when the popper breaks the sound barrier. Get a single tail wrong and you can open a wound that requires stitches to close.  Knowing this, I picked up the tail and drew my nails down her back which was now quite red.

Her back was a mottle of pink and bright red.  Her irritated skin had small spots of red, where pores protested the abuse.  I started the single tail in a light horizontal stroke. The popper grazing lightly across her back, from left to right and then right to left.  Now when I say lightly, there is nothing light about a single tail.  Each light graze leaves lines in the skin, a temporary indication of where it has been.

Now I tested a light vertical strike to the shoulder blade, Izrina shuttered, I continued.  Horizontal again, another vertical strike.  The vertical strikes are vicious.. the tail like a snake uncoils all of its fury  into that sound that breaks the sound barrier. The terrifying crack of that flimsy popper moving at tremendous speed is a real world demonstration of science.

The Kinetic energy that I deliver to my slave is the mass of the popper times the velocity squared.  Since the speed is higher than the sound barrier, and the factor of speed is squared, the damage potential is enormous.  Izrina shuttered, her eyes watering, I took mercy and shifted back to the flogger, reminding myself she asked for this.

To fly, a top must not back off.. but a top must also know when a slave has had enough.  I alternated between the single tail and the flogger, pushing her, looking for the signs that she was gone.. and then I called it.. the end of the impact portion of our scene..

I decided that what we could not achieve on the Saint Andrews, we would on the fire station.  We would talk later and she would tell me that she was almost there when I took her down.. Hind sight..So we could have achieved flying on the cross.. damn!

It is OK though.. I knew I would get her there.. She was like a rag doll.. with the help of another Dom, we moved her to the fire station I had set up next to the Saint Andrews.  She lay a bit on her side, not fully flat.  When the fire hit her it was like a switch.  She went from slightly curled up to a puddle of happy.  She fairly flowed out flat, arms drooping over the sides of the table. The leather of the table had been covered in cotton and padding to protect it from fire drips.   I now covered Izrina in alcohol and fire.

Fire play can be like a warm massage or and evil fucking torture.  It depends on what you want to do with it.  Tonight, since I needed to push her over the edge, and she had not gone yet, I started with it like a gentle massage of heat. Once a person is flying, I swear you could take a chainsaw to them and they wouldn’t care.

I slapped the burning wand soaked in fuel onto my hand.. setting my own hand of fire, then wiped that fire across her back, the secondary warmth rubbing into to tender flesh and muscles..

I took an unlit wand, soaked in fuel and laid a trail of alcohol across her back.  Alcohol in air evaporates nearly instantly.  Evaporation is a cooling process. I blew on the raw fuel, speeding the process, creating zones of intense cold.  Cautious as always to be sure no fuel remained, I returned with the fire.. heat on cold.. and she was totally and completely gone.. NOW I could do anything.  She was beyond nearly any pain I could bring. and my sadist side relaxed and played with the flesh before me.

I drew an “X” on her back in raw fuel and set it on fire.  The “X” emblazoned ever so briefly on her back in orange and blue flames.  My logo danced briefly before I wiped across it with my free hand, starving the fire of air and putting it out.  Nothing.. not a single muscle tightened, no shutter.. she was gone.

I played perhaps another half hour, drawing in her skin, warming and chilling it until I drew bored.. It’s nice when someone flys. but when they are gone.. they might as well be a rock for all the reaction you get.  I put out the candle.. my fire source.. and tightly closed the fuel jar.. my fuel source.. so there could be no accidents while I was away from my play station. The aspiring Dominant I spoke with last night at the munch was there, and I called him over for help moving her to a couch.

If she was difficult to move from the Saint Andrews, she was twice as difficult moving from the fire station.  She swam up from her fog, just enough to keep her legs under her.  I, with my arms under her left and he holding her up on the right, we half walked, half carried her to the couch where she collapsed.  I drew a soft warm blanket around her, grabbed water and snacks for the long wait of aftercare, and then drew her head into my lap.

Izrina is slow to come up out of it.  She likes to stay where she goes for long periods of time.  I have had people walk up to me 30 minutes later and ask if she is ok.  I like to joke that people sometimes poke her with a stick to see if she is still alive.  I chatted while she flew.

Now if you are wondering how the hell you can put someone on fire and not have serious burns, let me share the science while we wait for Izrina to return to us.

The alcohol is mixed with water.  It is not the liquid alcohol that burns but the fumes.  At the end of a long evening of fire play, my wands are soaked with the water that is left behind and can actually become difficult to light as a result of that.  Back when I was the carnival ride, I often had to wring out the wands, to get the water out, before continuing.

Now when I run a wand over a back, I can press down leaving some fuel behind and that fuel leaves a burning trail on the flesh.  But an odd thing happens if there is hair.. the hair only burns down to stubble.  You would expect the skin to be smooth after burning off hair but it is not and the reason is also the reason why we can do this at all.

You seen the alcohol forms a thin film on the skin but the alcohol itself is not burning, the vapors above it are.  So, if we drew a diagram, you would have layers.. the skin, then the thin film of fuel, then the vapors, and then the fire.  Between the fire and the skin is a thin film of liquid.. and it is this thin film that lets us briefly touch fire without being burned.  If you want all the gory details, go here to my fire play 101.  Fire play is also known as “fire fleshing”, because there are many kinds of ways to play with fire, besides putting it on flesh.

Izrina in due course returned to us in the land of the living and we talked about the scene.  I mentioned that I regretted not giving her a mark with the quirt.  So before we left, I gave her three. Two on purpose and one by mistake..

I marched her to the center of the dungeon and had her bend over, drop her skirt, and move her panties out of the way.  NOW I was ready to use the quirt in all that potential glory I mentioned earlier.

First her left butt check.  The aim was true and the speed and force all the I could manage and the mark was perfectly placed.. a one inch high strap mark around five inches long perfectly aligned across her ass on the left.    That swing is easy because its back hand.

Now the right butt cheek.. I was feeling cocky and sure of myself and just swung for it.  Fuck!  I was low .  I left a mark across the back of her thigh well below my target.. Damn… that’s going to be rough when she is back to work and riding horses.. Well nothing for it but another try.  I took two practice swings.. getting my stroke, speed and arch perfectly aligned and then let the real one go with all the speed and focus I could.  Perfect!  She had another perfect mark on the other cheek.  The two were so well aligned it almost looked like I had struck them both in one blow… very nice.. I admired my work, before letting her dress again.

For at least the better part of the next week, every time she sits she will have a reminder of this week end.  She’ll send me a text with just this.. WEM!.. which stands for “wicked evil man” and I’ll smile.  I’ll smile because I know she just sat wrong and got that sudden rush of reminder..  yeah.. its what we do.. and it pleases us both.  As she was crawling into bed, her ass was presented to me, and I had to stop her so that I could admire my work one more time.  I hope they color up nicely. That would please me immensely.

I’ve said it before and its true.. my main kink is power exchange. This sadism stuff is almost like the movie Secretary.. I am serving her needs more than mine.. Oh!, don’t get me wrong, I enjoy it.. but being addressed as “Sir”, or “Master” is what really gets me hard.   Carpe Diem my friends.. Go be someone’s great day.

My slave accused me of Evilution


Evolution – noun  (ev-oh-loo-shun)
1. The process by which different kinds of living organisms are thought to have developed and diversified from earlier forms during the history of the earth.
2. The gradual development of something, especially from a simple to a more complex form.

Evilution – noun  (ee-vil-oo-shun)
1. The process by which different kinds of sick fuckers are thought to have developed a lack of concern for the pain they inflict.
2. The gradual development of sadism, especially from a simple spanking into more and more elaborate shit until three steamer trunks are required to haul your toys around.


 

Munch, munch, munch…

Yeah, so we went to our local munch tonight.  Good food…. good company.. An aspiring Dominant sat across from us, and we chatted at length, and as the table filled, he found himself surrounded by three aging Masters, all with a soapbox and plenty of time, and advice.. on their hands.  That poor fucker! Trapped!  Trapped I tell you!  At least he took it in stride.

Anyway, at one point the conversation turned to how a new Dom might make the mistake of lessening their level of sadism, because he or she feels its something they can’t do to a lover.. Or not order a blow job, even if its what they want.. The general consensus was that eventually we evolve past that…. or is it devolve?.. Izrina and I spoke of this more during the ride home.. maybe we evilve?..  (pronounced ee-vilv – part of the processes of evilution).

It’s a serious issue, this evilution thing… I mean first, you have a hard time being a sadist and feeling like you are genuinely treating your pet with love.. but then you get over it.  The next thing you know, your slave is saying no to Master and you are all like.. I’m sorry.. “no” doesn’t work for me.  I believe the answer you are looking for is: “Yes Master, whatever pleases you.  Now keep that ass in the air, while I go retrieve the canes and riding crops from the closet.”

Back before Master succumbed to evilution you could be pretty sure of what he was capable of.. now you aren’t so fucking sure… After that sick bastard gets back from the closet, not only will he beat a dead horse, he’s likely to bring down such a beating that even the infamous dead horse might have the courage to run away from it.  Your slave walks into the room thinking…Look.. we both know that you can lead a horse to water but you can’t make him.. oh fuck!…fuck, fuck, fuck.. Look, Look! Ok!  OK!.. I’m drinking.. see me drinking like a good horse??

When did “no” start meaning “yes”?   Hard to say.. Evilution is a slow process.  The grin gradually gets bigger, the toys more wicked, and one day you just wake covered in marks and it dawns on you.. another victim of evilution!

Izrina read this before publishing and her critique was.. this is a short one for you.. Excuse me… I have to get something from the closet.. be back soon…..

Creative Writing – knife play

Written some time ago, I present this is semi-fictional, a collection of things I’ve done with sharp pointy things, but not all together with the same person, as presented here. The term tanto, along with other interesting knife terms can be found at one of my favorite knife sites:
Knife Anatomy by Jay Fisher

Edge Play
A semi-fictional story by Xtac (pronounced Ecstasy)
______..)/..________..)/..________..)/.._______..)/..________..)/__
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There was something undeniably irresistible about him from the very first time she saw him. Where other men had tried to rule her life, he just did; as if it was his birthright. He commanded her as easily as breathing, grasping her firmly, taking her breath away, and then dismissing her, as a “vanilla”.

He was infuriating and insufferable but mysterious and so she stayed, probing, asking questions until at last he explained about the life he lead, and how she could not be a part of it.

Dark secrets, both hers and his were exchanged, each bringing them closer to a world that both could share. It was all new to her and yet the excitement she felt to be in his command, to have the pain she needed, to have it administered by another, to have this burden of guilty painful pleasure lifted and placed in the hands of another; placed in the hands of this man which she now trusted completely with all her being and soul, was too delicious, too incredibly powerful a force to deny.

He brought his bag of “toys” in from the car, with her in tow. A small group of friends they had made at the local munch, gathered in the living room, anxious for the show, for the scene they would offer. He walked her to the center of the room and took the “scene collar” he always wore, from around his neck offering it to her. They had played out this scene before, she knew it well.

Will you, he asked, take this collar for the duration of this scene, and to the best of your abilities, strive to be my slave as long as you wear it? Will you obey my commands, attempt to anticipate my wants, and will you trust me to act in your best interests and needs? Yes Sir, she answered meekly, eyes down. She held her hair up, as the coldness of the precious metal encircled her neck. Precious; yes precious, she thought. Not because it is silver, but because he gives it to me, even if only temporarily for this scene, because he wants me, and offers me this chance to be his. As long as I wear this, I get to call him Master instead of Sir. Yes, this is precious, she thought.

He finished clasping the toggle of the scene collar and placed a hand at her chest, between her breasts, pushing her back silently up against the bed room door which was closed. He left her there, ignoring her while he laid out his toys in neat rows. She watched, nervously, wanting to fidget, but wasn’t sure what to do with her hands. She wanted to finger the collar, touch it but decided it was better to do nothing until ordered, so she watched and waited for him to finish. She stole a glance around the room. Doms and subs sat comfortably, silently watching this scene play out. She swallowed nervously. He knew that she used to cut herself. She had professed to be turned on by the idea of edge play. Hell when he talked about it, she had turned soaking wet, but this, now it was happening, this was real.

Out of the toy bag came floggers and rope, leather restraints and metal hardware, and now, a particularly nasty collection of knives. One was curved like an eagle’s talons. Another was oddly shaped, like a small samurai sword. Sir had shown this one to her before. He called it a tanto knife. All gleamed with the steel of razors. She found her knees going weak, and a tremble shook her body, a wake of fear, doubt, and the undeniable wetness of excitement flooded her being.

He pulled her forward away from the door, opened it, threw a pair of temporary suspension hooks over the top and then closed they door. He placed his hand again to her chest, fingered the silver collar and smiled, then pushed her back into the door. The wood was firm, hard against her back. He placed his hands on either shoulder, fingers up the sides of her neck, thumbs under her chin.

Cupping her face in his hands, he looked deeply into her in the eyes, and smiled saying, “It’s going to be OK”. She forced a weak smile, but her stomach turned in flip-flops and her panties soaked. So odd, she thought, how he commands me, how I respond, how I stay. She closed her eyes and waves of red hot sexual energy coursed over her clit and up her spine. His hands traveled slowly down again. She tremble again, under his touch. He stopped at her cleavage, and turned to the toys. It was like a break in continuity, to not have him touch her. It was an absence, a longing, she wished he would continue.

He fastened a leather shackle around her wrist, pulling it tightly until encircled and squeezed. The leather squeaked, that familiar pleasant sound that leather makes when it moves. As he placed the tongue of the buckle into its hole, the pressure released ever so slightly. He commanded her to take off her shirt and she did so hesitantly, not used to doing so with others in the room. She handed him the shirt and he folded it neatly and placed it with the toys, then guided her shackled wrist up, over her head and snapped it into the restraint at the top of the door.

She wanted to bring her free hand over her breasts, but he grabbed this one now, and after placing a shackle on it as well, bound her second wrist up over her head. She stood there, exposed, deep breaths making her chest rise and fall. She wanted to cover, to fidget, and a half dozen other things she could not while bound like this. She felt panic, at the fringes of her being, a reaction, that she suppressed. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply and slowly.

He reached over to his toys and selected a rectangle piece of stone, a whetstone, used for sharpening knives, and placed it in her right hand. Hold that, is all he said. She looked out over the room, attempting to keep her calm. The stone was heavy and rough, with hard corners. She turned it slowly in her hand, being very, very careful not to drop it.

Next he selected a small but wicked looking knife and raised it slowly, holding it directly in front of her face. See how sharp this is, my pet, he cooed in a low voice? Yes Master, she replied simply. I want you, he said, to hold this in your hand, by the blade, and be very, very careful not to run your finger over the edge. Do not squeeze it too hard or you will cut yourself. Yes Master she replied again.

He turned the knife and placed the flat of blade against the palm of her opened left hand. He paused, the steel lightly touching, as he placed his other hand at her chin, looking deeply into her eyes with a wicked smile, and said. If there is any cutting, I’ll do it, is that understood? Yes Master, again she intoned, but in her mind, the message was clear, he was testing her. By giving her the blade to hold, he was risking that she might cut herself, and daring her, taunting her, challenging her, not to do it. Her finger closed slowly, carefully around the razor edges, as she stared back into his eyes. His smile disappeared for a fraction of a second and his voice was a thousand whips, cutting his command into her, “Don’t disappoint me” is all he said.

While she carefully held the two objects her master had entrusted to her, he turned back to the guests and their host, completely ignoring her. I need something with ice in it, he said, preferably a bucket or small saucepan. Do you think we can rustle up such an item? Oh!, and everyone? He said, Now would be a great time to get a drink.

The group got up, milled around and he disappeared into the kitchen with the host. They came back with a small metal saucepan, filled with ice cubes and placed it next to the toys. She felt his intent, to put her on display, to give her time with the knife in her hand. She closed her eyes, and the room went away. If guests were staring at her, that was easy to block out, but the knife, damn the knife was there. The weight of it pressed against the pad of her thumb, against her fingers. If she moved it to a better balance so it wouldn’t be so heavy. But how could she move it without cutting herself. I must not let it cut me, I must not let it cut me, she thought over and over.

Time dragged on. Slow torturous time. Less pressure, lighter grip, don’t let the knife fall, over and over, until time stood still and it was only her and the knife, eyes closed, focused on this one task. She barely noticed as the guests filtered back into their seats, drinks in hands, and all eyes were on her, the slave, chained to the door, eyes tightly closed, holding the knife by its sinister sharp blade.

She was suddenly aware of his return, as he gently grasped her wrist. First, I’ll take this, he said. He grasped the handle and very carefully, slowly unwrapped her fingers from it. He thrust the knife into the ice bucket, and left it there. He took her hand and carefully inspected it for cuts, but she had been very careful, very delicate with the long grip on the blade. He kissed her hand, and then trailed his touch down her arm to her ear, well done my pet, he cooed.

Next he took a small blindfold from his toy bag, and approached her. Panic welled up in her throat, and she squeezed the whetstone hard. Ready? Is all he asked. “yes Master” she weakly replied. The blindfold slid over her head, and darkness fell. The room disappeared. She felt the blackness engulf her, and she clung now to the sounds of the room.

At first, she heard only the whispering of guests, but as she adjusted, she began to notice the sounds of traffic outside, and the occasional odd noises that we never notice, usually. He stepped close, very close and the smell of him was wonderful. He grasped her right arm, unhooking and lowering it. His breath was on her neck, his body so close, then came his deep voice at her ear. Edge play, my pet, is all he said.

The whetstone was still in her free hand as he took hold of this arm, pushing her elbow back into the door. I want you, he said, to keep your elbow at the door, and your arm against your side. He grasp her hand with the stone. Hold it like this, he said, and positioned her fingers in a circle around the stone. Now, he said in a low voice, don’t move. Hold the stone perfectly still. I am going to sharpen this knife, and I don’t want you to lose a finger.

She could feel the stone heavy in her hand and now it felt that much heavier. She heard the rustle of ice as he took the knife from the bucket. He placed his hand under hers. His knee slid between her legs and braced both of them against the door. His arm was just under her breasts, as he laid the knife against the stone. He slid the knife against the stone, the scary sound of steel against something harder. It scraped and the sound went through her. He leaned close. The edge can slide against your fingers, he said, but only one side cuts. As if to make the point a cold edge came in contact with her first finger. Now, he said, if I slide this against your finger fast, you won’t feel anything until the sting sets in, or he added with an evil chuckle, doesn’t sting, depending on what side I use.

Her mind reeled. Yes Master escaped her lips like a gasp. She wished now, that both hands were tied again so that she could collapse. The tremble in her knees gently shook her whole body. She struggled to hold the stone steady, to stop the trembling. Fast, he said simply. and then, before she could prepare herself, completely without warning it was over before she realize it started. He drew the blade quickly, lightly, over her upturned finger. By the time she realized what was happening, it was already over. He took the finger quickly and sucked on it, then bit her so hard she winced. Pain from the bite made it hard to tell if he had cut her or if he had teased her. Her senses stretched to every nerve in her finger, but still, from the darkness of her blindfold, she wasn’t sure.

He began to draw the blade slowly over the stone again, going back and forth, the sick sound of scraping, filling her ears. Her finger throbbed and still she could not be sure what had happened. She felt it then again, this thing she felt for this man, the man that did these things to her. She felt it like a need, like love, but somehow deeper, stronger, more powerful a pull than she had ever know a man could make her feel. It didn’t fit with anything she ever knew, but it was there, this need for him use her.

You have three more perfectly good finger tips sticking up, he chuckled, as he worked with the stone. Yes Master, again she found herself saying. What more could she say? What more should she say? Should she tell him that he owned her? That he could take her body however he pleased? Should she beg him to mark her, claim her? What more could she say, that he did not already know? He knew that he owned her. He had know that he would from the first day she met him.

He finished sharpening the knife without further incident, or so she assumed when the sound of scrapping stopped and she heard him place it in the ice. She took a deep breath, and realized that she been barely breathing. The sound of sloshing and ice bumping around the knife told her that, for now, the steel was sheathed. He took the stone from her hand, and she realized that her hand was trembling, or at least it was, until he took hold of it, and kissed it.

Slowly, deliberately, he kissed each finger tip, sucking it, and then placed his teeth at the root of her cuticle, that tender pressure point that he loved to tease in public, and bit hard, sending wave after wave of pain up her arm. Wave followed wave, one for each finger, until he reached the one in question. This finger he simple kissed and then curled back, closing her hand into a fist.

He grabbed her suddenly, by both hips and spun her, facing the door. A spank at her bottom sent a warm red tingle through her, and was following by the familiar sound of leather whistling through the air. He draped the flogger over her shoulder and trailed it slowly down her back, letting her feel the leather before it sang. It was soft, warm, and sent shivers down her back as she anticipated the pain to come.

The whistle again, this time near her ears, he was teasing her, tensing her up for the first blow and when it came, full of heavy thunk, slapping down on her shoulder blades, it was almost a relief. The first was followed by another and another, and another, coming harder and faster so that the pain spread over her, and through her. She ceased to be, she became. She was alive and the sound retreated as master applied the leather that colored her back in pink, then deeper hues. He alternate left, then right, the leather flailing over skin that grew ever more sensitive, and occasionally he threw in a wicked and skillfully designed shot that sent the tails wrapping around her ribcage to kiss the sides of her breasts and tease her nipples. He drove her deeper and deeper, her mind retreating into that place where pain turns to sparks. The sparks all collected with evil glee on her clit; a weird, warm, sexual pleasure that she could not deny.

It stopped suddenly, and she fought like someone who has jumped into deep water, looking for the surface. Without the constant stimulus, there was nothing, no room, no Master, nothing. She struggled to remember what it was she was doing. Before she could come up, he yanked her bra up over her breasts. The touch, the firmness, was familiar. Sir! She felt she must cry, not for pain, but for his touch.

Her pendulant breasts fell free. The fact that there was an audience did not exist in her mind. There was only Sir and she, whoever she was. No, she existed, yes! She existed because of Sir. His hands were on her breasts, but then came pain. He applied one, then two nipple clamps. She sucked in, the pain sending new bolts down her spine. A metal chain between them dangle near her rib cage. She trembled, with only one hand still tied, strapped overhead.

Perhaps sensing she could take little more, he turn her around again slowly, and took her free hand, the one that had held the stone, back over her head. She was grateful now for the support and let some of her weight down, let herself hang a bit by her arms. He stood close, his knee once again between her legs again. She wiggle a bit, enjoying the feeling of her pussy slide against Sir, now her Master. She wanted, so much to cum. For Sir, her orgasm was a gift given to him. She wanted this, to give Sir her sign of pleasure, to cum, to feel the release, the explosion of the passion and energy that he was frothing into her. As if reading her mind, or maybe because she was practically dry humping him, he said in a low whisper in her ear, You will NOT cum without permission my pet. Yes Master, she replied, but the pleading in her voice was unmistakable.

She heard the rustle of ice as the blade was once again lifted free, her pulse quickened; she reached out with her senses, trying to feel where he was. A single cold droplet of water splashed suddenly against chest and dribbled slowly down into her cleavage. He leaned up against her, his chest, near hers, his breath on her neck, and he whispered again.. Only I can cut. The knife was again in his hands, the words themselves cut.

She started to say Yes S….. But was cut short. A searing feeling stung against her left breast. Unexpected; it was like a burn, then a pain, then cold as her mind rolled though possibilities, trying to pin down what was happening. She realized he had pressed the flat of that ice chilled blade against her and she breathed again.

She had stopped breathing. Inside her blindfold, it was dark but the feeling of this flat, cold pressure on her breast was clear. As she processed these thoughts she could feel him turn the blade in his grasp, slowly, from flat side to edge. The edge of the blade was now against her breast, his hot breath on her neck, and he said it again: Only I can cut.

A feeling not quite panic or fear washed, a feeling strong and exciting swept over her and her knees buckled. She began to buck against the knee between her legs. She wanted something inside her. The desire to cum welled up as he pulled the knife to a point and drew it slowly down her front, scratching her as he went. She felt its tip, its malevolent edge, run slowly over her exposed breast. He lightly traced the nipples. She could feel everything so clearly thanks to the extreme cold of the blade. He turned the flat to her once more and brought it under the clamps. She had nearly forgotten the clamps and it sent new courses through her as she rediscovered the pain in her nipples.

With the flat of the blade he pulled back the blade and every so lightly slapped her breast with the flat of the blade. The clamps bounced, tugging at her nipple. She bit her lower lip, relishing the fear, the pain, the feeling. He took the blade from under the clamp and slapped her breasts again and again with the flat of the blade, each a small pain, a small terror, and a delicious torment. She wondered if the edge could cut this way? As of to answer her thoughts, he turned the blade to its edge again, and then to the point. With his other hand, he took the chain from the nipple clamps and put it to her lips. Understanding instantly, she opened her mouth and accepted the reigns to her pain.

Her bra up over her breasts, her nipples pulled high by the chain in her mouth, the tip of the knife at her breast, she leaned her head back, pulling her nipples up. As she pulled her breasts up, they slid up from under the tip of the knife. Very well done my pet, he said in approving tones. The pain of the nipples, and the thought of the knife, sent more shivers though her and she bucked uncontrollably, wanting so very much to cum. She pressed her clit against his knee. I would be so easy to cum now, with just a few rubs. Only master’s command kept her at bay. The torment was delicious, then painful, an aching need that could not be denied, but must be, but couldn’t.

But Sir was not done tormenting her yet. He trailed the scratching edge of the blade over one breast then the other. He scratched down, down, over her belly to her snapped jeans. He pulled the knife away and then something hard, maybe the handle, maybe the blade itself pressed up into the folds of her jeans. She rubbed against it anyway, not caring. She needed release. “Pleassssee Master”, escaped her lips.

He tucked the handle of the knife into her panties and she no longer cared what he cut. Sir unfastened her belt and pulled it through the loops of her jeans, then began to whip her thighs with it. She danced under the blows, the knife bouncing and jiggling against her. He pulled the knife back out from where he had tucked it, and unsnapped her jeans. The invasion caused only a moments panic but was driven away quickly by another repeat of the belt whippings.

Her body screamed to orgasm, for something to buck up against, something inside her, something, something. Something snapped inside her. He was there then, with the knife, and his body, pressed against hers. He trailed the knife down her body again, and whispered once more in her ear. “I want you”, he said, “to cum for me”. “Yes Master, OH God, yes please Master” she begged.

He turned the knife and pressed against her jeans, against her clit. As if her body had a mind of its own, without regard for safety, she began to buck, humping the hard object, and as soon as she did, it was pulled away quickly, a cold thin metal line at her neck, and a whisper in her ear. Slowly my pet, he said , Slowly. Give our hosts a good show.

Yes Master, oh God, yes Master, let me cum she begged. He pressed the handle against her again and she began to move her hips, sliding her clit back and forth over it. It was cruel to ask her to hold back, driven to the edge as she was, but she did her best to obey.

Slowly, deliberately, she rolled her clit back and forth over the handle. Her body screamed for release. Her spine was a river of sexual energy coursing through her. Her knees buckled but the sturdy straps held her, pulling at her arms. She convulsed; wild uncontrolled undulations that shook her whole body. Oh Master! She screamed, as waves became violent vibrations. Like a jack-hammer she vibrated, a long low guttural scream escaping the lips of a woman cuming as she had never cum before. Oh! Oh! Oh! She ejaculated against the knife, hot wet stickiness that flooded her panties and ran down her legs. Oh God Sir, OH! Master! She bucked uncontrollably and now Sir was there, holding her, keeping her upright, riding out the waves with her. The room was silent for a very long time.

Can I get a hand here? He asked and instantly there was a Dom at either side of her, unfastening her arms. Freed, she wrapped them around him, still quivering with the after-shocks and minor tremors of her orgasm in retreat. With help from the others, she was lead to a place on the floor, at the feet of her beloved Sir, and she hugged his legs, thankful for this man. The thought came to her, in due time and she timidly checked. Yes, he was as hard as a rock still. The excitement was still in him.

2011

Knives on New Years Eve

The room was dimly lit. The sound and heat of a crackling fire warmed her.  She could hear, but not see, blindfolded and chained to a Saint Andrews Cross as she was, in the center of the room.  The sound of him drawing his knife from its sheath reached her ears, and then came the touch.  Cold steel on bare flesh and she shuttered.  Fear, tempered by trust gripped her as he drew it to her throat.


 

For New Years Eve, we enjoyed the company of friends and fine food at a house party. Its a lovely way to bring in the New Year.  Surrounded by good people, your own kind, where people gather in the kitchen and the conversation can range over a broad spectrum of subjects.  This year we avoided politics.  Frequent jokes and laughter.  I am grinning now, at one point someone told a joke that took a bit too long to tell, and there was polite laughter.  Then in the silence that followed someone said: The juice wasn’t worth the squeeze.. a slave taking a sip at that moment gagged and spit her drink, then still coughing, excused herself.. We checked on her, concerned she could breath, chuckling but concerned.  Sometimes a thing is funny in the moment and later you can’t explain exactly why.  The juice wasn’t worth the squeeze.. I like that one.  It was a warm evening.

A few hours before midnight, the play started.  I had brought a dress shirt to cut off Izrina.  I had planned to also do impact and fire, but space was limited so we just did edge play.. or knife play.

Edge Play – When I have played with knives in the past, this was called edge play..playing with the sharp edges of knives.  Somewhere in recent history, edge play also began to be used to describe playing at the edge of a RACK ( Risk Aware Consensual Kink).. playing in a way that pushes consent and risk.  Knife play can do that..  but you have to know how people are using the term.. edge play.. are they using it to describe knife play.. of in the other way?

Izrina, when she goes into subspace, goes in hard.  I often joke that people will “poke her with a stick” to see if she is still alive.  I was worried that I wouldn’t be able to get her up for the champagne toast at midnight.  I could tell you in story form, all of the delicious things that I did to her, to drive her down so deep.  That would be quite titillating.. kind of like the way I started this blog.  Instead today I want to be more clinical.  I would like to share with you some techniques that you may want to borrow during your next play session.


KNIVES – A PRIMER

Playing with knives is not for everyone because when you play with knives, you are playing with the critical foundation of all M/s relations – trust!   For it to be effective, there must be real fear.  A masochist knows you will hurt them, but you won’t harm them.  Therein lies the keys to playing the mind of your bottom with a knife.  The fear isn’t cutting into trust. In fact, playing with knives deepens your trust. No, the fear you instill is about how much pain will be created without harm.. and if a mistake will cause harm.  and if you the Master, can correctly judge pain thresholds.  So, how do we do this thing with knives?   First, let’s start with the knowledge necessary for playing with knives:

Two things that cut – Knives cut because of two things… speed and pressure.  Knives cut when you are moving the knife quickly or with pressure or both.  The sharper the knife, the less speed and pressure are required to cut.  When we know this, we are armed with the knowledge necessary to play with them.

Speed is easy to control.  The faster you move the knife the less predictable will be the effect of the blade.  Pressure can be controlled easily when a slave is horizontal on a table.  Less easily when they are upright on a cross.  This is because gravity is the easiest way to control knife pressure.  If you hold your knife at the balance point, no pressure is applied to the skin.  If you hold it just back of the balance point, the  weight tilts the knife down, creating pressure to cut.  If you allow the balance point and the weight of the knife to create the cutting pressure, you have a very fine level of control.  This works best when your subject is horizontal, like the blade.

Techniques for creating fear with knives – Fear is mostly about the unknown.  So a blindfold can be very helpful in creating fear of the unknown.  Blindfolds reduce the experience to sound and touch.  Use a sharpening stone with the blindfold so they can hear the steel dragged across stone.  The sick sound of steel scraping against stone is so much worse when its in preparation of a knife to be used on you.  For added fun, make them hold the stone blindfolded and play with the fingers that hold it, while you are sharpening.  Touch is next.  Knives in cold water or ice create almost painful sudden sensations.  If you have a violet wand with a body probe, the right setting of electrical stimulant added to a knife can make it feel like you are cutting, even when you actually are not. All people are different but certain parts of the body create greater fear than others.  Izrina is most sensitive to the blade on her breasts, throat, and wrists.  The tip of the blade creates gasps on nipples, palms, earlobes and finger tips.  You have to find those sweet spots, where either the blade or the tip create gasps.  Talking is a personal thing too.   Silence, punctured by a whisper, or low growl is going to be your personal touch..as well as what to say.  I personally like to say things like:  You are mine, this body is mine, I  will take my pleasures from it … with my knife tonight..


A PRIMER ON CUTTING CLOTHING

In porn when you see someone cutting clothing, they always cut holes for the nipples.. Bah!  amateurs!   Cutting clothing can be a fast thing, tearing to get at what is underneath, or it can be a slow thing that heightens the sense of helplessness combined with the delicious sensations of things against skin.

I wear dress shirts and eventually they get old.  When a shirt’s fabric begins to show it’s weave, or a hole appears, or a stain can’t be removed, its time to save it for an evening of pleasure.  If you are into this kind of thing, always keep an eye out for the next piece of clothing to be sacrificed in this way.

I love a girl in a dress shirt and little else.  There is something very sexy about how short it is, how the tail in the front and back just barely covers the naughty bits.  When I cut a shirt from Izrina, I like to use a gutting knife.   Its a nasty little bit of hardware, with finger holes like brass knuckles and a curved blade that is designed to dig into an animal and split it open for gutting.  A good tug on that curved blade shreds clothing into nice ragged strips. and that is exactly what I want.

The first two shreds I want to make are in the heavy fabric on either side of the buttons, if shredded from just below the breast, down to the bottom, it forms two strips that can be then later crossed under the breasts, and around to her back where they can be tied off.  Subsequent rips from the shoulders down, create more strips  that hang loosely over breasts. A lovely sight. These can be used then to create some stunning breast bondage.  Use your imagination.  A shirt or dress shredded just so, with forethought and planning, changes from tatters to a bondage garb.  Add some nipple clamps and the combination of fear, trust, touch, sound, pain, and pleasure are quite satisfying.


 

A wonderful start to a new year – The edge play, and her reactions, were a lovely end to the year.  She was still a bit groggy as we toasted in the new year in the company of good people.  It was a great start to the year to come.  I hope my primers give you some wicked ideas you want to try soon.  Carpe Diem my friends, go be someone’s great day!