Endurance

Posted on December 12, 2013 under Reflections

Had an interesting conversation with rubberfreak this weekend about how long we each last in bondage. He had just done this scene with Rocket, in which he was apparently in that position for a few hours, and was sore for it for several hours after. I look up to both of them a lot, and almost every scene of theirs I hear about is incredibly horny. But I feel like a wimp when I hear about what they put each other through, when rubberfreak says things like "Yeah I don't get much of a choice." Often enough I'm asking Sir to be let out of things from something falling asleep or from cramps starting to come up. A lot of the time I take it as a challenge to last as long as Sir wants, but thinking in this context it's easier to recall all the times I've 'wimped out.'

I think it's more healthy to think of it as a personal preference though, than in terms of who can take more pain, or who has more endurance. I've seen people getting turned on from the cramps they get in a straitjacket. For me though, when those shoulder cramps start setting in I tend to want out.

I also tend to have low blood flow issues, my limbs fall asleep easily and I'm prone to getting lightheaded. When I was a college swimmer my event was the 500 yard freestyle. I was a distance swimmer and I took great pride in my endurance, but even for all that I still had these weird blood pressure problems, so I'm not sure if there's anything to be done for it. Unfortunately as Sir can tell you, it can put a damper on play sometimes too.

It became an issue this weekend when we got to playing with suspension and in one instance I started feeling lightheaded. Sensory deprivation while suspended in a straitjacket has always been a fantasy of mine, unfortunately in another instance I only lasted about 40 minutes before the harness started being unbearable. It's something I wish I could power through but in this case it'd probably be dangerous to try.

As I've written on here before, pain is a weird thing. Most of the time I love predicament bondage, electro, cock and ball torture, and nipple torture. But it has to be in the right context. The really intense pain play has to be part of an ordeal journey. Predicaments for me can just as easily be miserable or incredibly horny. Sometimes you even need to power through the miserable bit to get to the horny bit. One week we did a stress position with heavy metal stocks and I lasted an hour, and the endorphin high afterward was incredible. The next time we tried it I was miserable after 15 minutes.

So cramps and the like from bondage can be in this weird gray area of deliberate pain, because of course bondage can lead to cramps, and accidental pain from straps pinching, limbs falling asleep, and so on. I've learned that there's always going to be people who are a lot more into this or that than I'll ever be, so I think it's much better to put it in terms of personal preference than who's the most hardcore. Some people really get off on the cramps and awkward positions, but for me I like my bondage cozy yet restrictive and my pain deliberate.

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You can't get it done

Posted on March 08, 2013 under Reflections

If could just get that new piece of gear... If I could just find a keyholder... If I could just find the right boy... I'd finally be happy!

Well, that's not really the whole story, is it?

That new piece of gear doesn't get you as hard as it used to, but ooh, there's that other toy over there! And now that I've been locked up for a few weeks I've become accustomed to it... Or those scenes with the perfect Sir aren't quite as amazing as our dynamic has slowly shifted...

So you keep shopping. Or you need to be constantly be re-negotiating with your play partners. But that's a good thing. Because you'll never be satisfied with having the same experience over and over again. You've got to get out there and do something new, and nothing else will make you feel good. You don't just get your happiness and be done with it, it's a never-ending adventure. And that's what makes it all so compelling.

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Releasing Control

Posted on December 12, 2012 under Reflections

I had a long post about jealousy typed up a few weeks ago but that's not really where I am right now. Honestly, the last few weeks with Sir have been pretty awesome. We've had some great scenes.

Everybody wants more scenes, or an amazing partner, or their friends to be less crazy, or--

Breathe.

Trust.

Two steps any sub worth their salt should be familiar with. At any given time there are 30-40 opportunities to get what we want right in front of us. We're just too busy being upset that we don't have it yet to see them.

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More Than Just Born This Way

Posted on July 16, 2012 under Reflections

... we intended to be this way.

When evaluating beliefs one of my favorite benchmarks is whether or not it is empowering. If I want to be a powerful being, then I should evaluate those beliefs on that basis.

And so the "Born This Way" argument has always felt a little weak to me. When someone says, "Why are you gay? Why are you kinky? Why don't you try being straight or vanilla like the rest of us?" it seems like a little bit of a cop-out to blame it on biology. To say I can't help it, that's just the way I am, that's just the hand I was dealt isn't empowering at all. If we are to be the wonderfully powerful beings that we are, this just doesn't hold up very well. To be upset that we cannot live up to their expectations is a weakness, it just doesn't feel good at all.

But to say we came into this world so fiercely intending to be who we are that we created within ourselves desires and wants that could not possibly be mistaken for anybody else's, or to say we chose these things so that we could come into a better understanding of all that can possibly be, and to live in such a way that we can say without any doubt that it is our own, that is truly empowering.

We came into this world intending to be leathermen, rubbermen, gear heads, and gay men. We knew that going through all the struggles that those identities entail would bring us into an even deeper and wonderful understanding of who we truly are. We knew that setting up that journey for ourselves would lead us to a more amazing and powerful place. We are men who have sex with men. Delightfully complicated sex, sometimes. What an immensely powerful act?! (issues of conflating masculinity and power aside...)

We are so powerful that we can even choose bondage. Some people choose the bondage of despair and depression almost by default, because that is what society expects of them.

It can be quite a journey, but it is so much more delicious to choose the sexy kind of bondage, the kind with lovers and straps and locks!

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Tasty helmets

Posted on March 01, 2012 under Pictures

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You're fucked, asshole

Posted on February 29, 2012 under Stories

Because Vagabondage was looking for it, and I'm not sure where I got it from. Info on who wrote it would be appreciated, so I can properly attribute it!!

ST. LOUIS, MO. My partner and I met in Chicago because I saw him ask for a copy of Bound & Gagged. I was fascinated with bondage but never had the nerve to connect with anyone. I was so excited to see a beautiful, virile man from home with my interest that I had the guts to meet him. It turned out that underneath the clean-cut exterior is the body of a god and the imagination of a demon. I've put both to good use.

Sometimes our sessions are as simple as an ambush settled with rope and socks, others are as complicated as our relationship and involve lots of equipment and ingenuity. I thought I'd tell you about one of the most complicated ones.

We usually meet at Greg's place. He's rehabbed an old commercial building near downtown, an area usually deserted at night. The first floor houses his office and the second his loft. The third and forth haven't been remodeled: we use the third for a gym and the fourth is still a big, empty industrial space, with rough wooden floors and beams and thick brick walls. The sense of isolation and aloneness is terrific.

Our relationship isn't settled: we both like all aspects of a bondage relationship and we fight for position. In our formal sessions over the past two years we've developed complex and careful game rules and regulations. Greg is a perfectionist who'll plan and experiment secretly for months to make certain things go as he wants. I can get sloppy when things get hot, but not Greg: everything looks like he imagined, never a rope or chain out of place. Equipment fits exactly and does just what he wants. I've had to hold still for measurements most men never dream they have, never knowing how he'll use them against me.

Greg has a fetish for subjecting me to a kind of remote-control torment. He likes the thought of me alone and helpless, as some diabolical plan of his is carried out on my body by his weird "machines." As an engineer he's very good at this, and adapts all kinds of innocent things to torment me (toy and hardware stores are now erotic places to me). I've spent many an hour stretched taut as strange clockwork or battery-powered devices do unspeakable things to me.

Sometimes he's there to observe his handiwork, others he leaves altogether, to enjoy the thought of me fighting hopelessly against gadgets that won't stop until they've carried out his wishes mercilessly. Often he sets up videocams and all I have for company are the red recording lights, observing my torment emotionlessly. Greg may be watching on monitors in his quarters or only VCRs may be watching, recording for his pleasure later. He has walked to a local bar with a walkie-talkie fed to an earplug. As I was fighting to beg into a microphone fastened inches from my sealed lips, he was calmly enjoying a beer with rednecks, listening to my struggles and telling anyone who asked what game he was listening to, "My own, and I'm winning."

This night I reported to Greg at nine. He had won the last session and was top this night, which means he has to wear a special piece of gear we've perfected together. It's too complicated to describe here, but it's a small, effective chastity belt, which locks the cock into a small, flexible metal basket, sealed in turn under a leather jock. Locked with small padlocks, it makes an erection agony and doing anything with it impossible. The key becomes the bottom's property and its possession is the object of the game. If the top forces the bottom to give them up, he stays in control. If the bottom resists, or gets the top so hot he begs for the key for release, he gains the top position next time. It keeps things interesting.

Tonight I strip Greg down and lock him up to my satisfaction, while he stands at attention, feet spread and arms held high. I take time to enjoy my work, hands lingering over the job, hoping to make things painful for him and enjoying the only control I'll have this evening. Then he goes upstairs, so I can hide the key (in a beer can in the trash). Then my ass is his.

When he comes down he's looking hot and dangerous in tight black shirt, jeans and boots, the basket bulging clearly under the fly. In a second I'm slammed against the wall, hands braced overhead, feet forced far apart by the booted legs. He moves in close and I feel the muscles of his thighs flexing against mine under our jeans. He gives me a slow, thorough body search with loving hands through my clothes (I've been known to hide keys in interesting places). The bastard is showing off his control.

When he's satisfied, I'm stripped to the waist and blindfolded. My arms are forced behind me and I ;earn it's to be a leather evening as leather cuffs are strapped to my wrists. These must be new: very heavy and wide, they seem to be padded and reinforced. They wrap firmly around and are complex to fasten, involving several straps and buckles. An even larger pair is strapped onto my arms, fitting into the natural crook of my biceps. A heavy leather collar follows quickly, and when I jerk in surprise I find the top edge is lined with teeth, which bite into my neck when I move. This is fastened by a belt threaded all the way around, buckled under my chin. Next comes a massive belt around my waist., which feels four inches wide and jingles softly with hardware. It's complex to fasten too, involving a series of buckles in front, just above my fly.

When it's time to fasten all this I hear the clink of chains. Rings on the wrist cuffs are locked together behind my back. This is fastened to a length of chain, which is fed through a D-ring in the belt and then stretched along my spine, to be fastened to a ring in the back of my collar. My hands are now tightly bound, held close to the small of my back, and any struggle passes through the chain and pulls at my neck. My elbows are thrust out, but in a moment another chain joins the straps on my biceps behind my back. When a lock joins the two chains where they cross at the center of my back, my hands and arms are held tight and helpless.

I guess what's coming next. Greg has custom-made a gag that has to be experienced to be believed. A giant block rubber cock, shaped and veined like the real thing, is fastened to an oversized face plate, which is stiffened and molded to fit my face over my cheeks. I brace myself, but it's always a shock as my jaws are forced wide and the cock thrust between my lips and deep into my mouth, filling it completely and pressing my tongue down firmly. The wide straps fasten at the back of my neck with double buckles, and as they are cinched tight, my face is pressed tightly into the front plate, which is padded and completely seals my spread lips. It's the most effective gag I've ever experienced, and the only sound I can make is a grunt deep in my throat. Even that is mostly muffled by the face plate.

My jeans are peeled down, and wearing only leather and chain I feel Greg kneel before me. I flinch as the cock ring is buckled on. Then I fight to control myself as what feels like a heavy mesh cock sheath or jewel case is fitted over my cock. It feels like it's made of small leather straps, joined by studs. A ball cage made of the same mesh comes next, squeezing tight and locked on by a medium-sized ball stretcher. A ball spreader separates them and wedges them more tightly into the mesh bag. A series of clicks and the whole thing is locked together, confining and uncomfortable where the studs bite into tender flesh, but it seems a breeze to me. I've been locked in worse.

Then something new: I feel prickly metal spurs, or large burrs, being forced under my bound arms into my armpits. A strap runs through these, and the ends are brought over the front and back of my shoulders and fastened tightly to the sides of the collar, pulling the burrs firmly into my armpits, and making them shift and catch when I move my head or arms. They aren't exactly painful, but on the uncomfortable side of ticklish.

A pause and then Greg hooks off the blindfold, and when I'm used to the light I see him leaning casually against the far wall, with a half-smile on his face, and his favorite crop in his hand. I know to keep my eyes on his as he enjoys the sight of me, stripped, bound and humiliated. I risk a glimpse down and see that the straps on my arms are deep black and strongly reinforced. What I can see of the cock cage turns me on despite myself. Through the open mesh of black leather I see flesh straining at its bondage, and suddenly I'm introduced to the discipline of the device. The straps give my swelling cock no place to go, and the bite of the studs around both cock and balls quickly gets serious. More, the swelling, tender head is forced into a cap lined with serious studs, and I instinctively flex my knees and bite down on the gag. Greg smiles with amusement.

A flick of the crop sends me stumbling on the embarrassing trip through his loft and up the echoing concrete staircase, arms straining and walking awkwardly bowlegged to avoid painful jolts to my privates, dangling heavily in their cage. Up past the abandoned third floor to the fourth floor landing, where hanging beside the closed door is another familiar piece of equipment: a leather hood. As heavy-duty as everything else, it's made of heavy outer leather with a layer of padding between it and the glove leather lining. There are eye slits, now covered by a leather strap, and a nose opening, but where the mouth should be is smooth, unbroken leather. It fits me tightly, and as I'm laced in, I feel it sealing the tight gag even tighter, and forcing my chin up, jamming my teeth and tongue into the soft rubber cock. A zippered flap covers the lacing, and is in turn locked to the hood's own collar. I feel Greg lacing a thin chain through loops in both the hood collar and the larger collar already fastened on me, locking the two together. I'm blind, mouth stuffed tight, lips sealed over, and my entire head encased in layers of tight leather. Sound comes to me dimly, and as Greg unlocks the door and shoves me in, I could give a last scream with all my might and not be heard at the foot of the stairs.

Inside things happen fast. Toward the center of the empty space I run into a bench, covered with leather and about navel height. Forced to bend over it, I find it's very small: my neck and head hang over the top, ass and dick dangle over the bottom. It's also narrow, and my bound arms and sides of my chest extend over the sides. Very solid and attached firmly to the floor, I'm lying on it from my pecs to my abdomen.

In moments I'm fastened tightly down. Heavy straps run under my arms and over my back, fastening to the bench beneath me. Another strap is fed through rings on the cuffs binding my biceps, and pulled tight beneath the bench, drawing my arms forward and pulling my wrists tight.

So far my legs have been free, resting on the floor. Now two more of the incredibly heavy cuffs are being strapped on my ankles. I fight a little as Greg drags my legs apart, but the effort is laughable and with a click both ankles are chained to the floor, spread wide behind me. Next my legs are buckled into restraints, and these are incredibly heavy too: they must be eight inches wide, and circle my legs from the bottom of my thighs to my knees. They take four buckles each to close! Chains are fastened to the front of these and pulled taut to the floor under my chest. Bending my knees until my ankles are pulled tight, I'm now in a kind of crouching position over the bench, which is supporting my weight. Feet barely touch the floor, head dangles free until the teeth of the collar bite, ass stretched and exposed, cock and balls hang down toward the floor. Two more straps are pulled up over the front of the bench and each of my shoulders, like suspenders. But they're passed separately down the sides of my back, pulled under my forearms, and instead of fastening to the belt at my waist, they're pulled tight between the cheeks of my ass, passing down past each side of my cock's root and buckled to each side of the bench. Jerked taut, they prevent any movement up and down the bench, and force my ass cheeks wide apart. I quickly realize the surfaces touching this tender area are studded.

More to come: a chain is locked to the collar beneath my chin, pulled straight down and fastened to the floor. This makes my head almost immobile, but keeps the collar from biting into my neck. Strong clamps are clipped to each nipple, and the chain connecting them fastened under the bench and attached to a weight, which swings freely and sends electric sensations through my stiff nipples.

Gently something is fastened to the straps that hold my balls in thrall, and drawn forward until my balls are pulled taut from my body. I do what protesting I can through the gag and hood, but Greg is concentrating, making tiny adjustments and working so closely I feel his warm breath on my tender flesh, causing painful stirrings inside the cock sheath.

I sense he's finished, and is simply admiring his work, running a hand over my exposed flank like a rancher admiring his tied bull. After a moment the strap that covers the eye slits is pulled away, and I see Greg crouching on his haunches in front of me. He moves in close and cups my leathered chin in his hand, pulling it forward until our eyes are inches apart, his blue and amused, mine nearly invisible in the hood. I'd think he was going to kiss me if he didn't have my lips strained around a rubber cock and sealed beneath several layers of leather. He smiles and whispers his only words of the evening: "You're fucked, asshole."

He disappears behind me, and I strain to hear him bolt the door and his boots descend the stairs: down, down, down, gone I take a while to test the situation. My assessment is that even if I was unlocked from the floor the sheer weight of the leather and chains strapped to me would keep me harmless. I feel the air on my exposed asshole, but what I need to scratch that itch is locked in a cage of its own, and probably on its way out for a drink with the boys.

The area is dimly lit, and I strain to see what I can through the hood's eyeslits. I can glimpse an ankle and a knee on both sides. The chains are as huge and oversized as the cuffs: what kind of struggle is he expecting, anyway? Until the collar stops me, I can bend to look under myself and the bench to glimpse my poor cock, aching in its cage, balls pulled tight in their sack by a cord which runs to a ring in the floor, then doubles back to disappear behind me. I can't move an inch.

I have plenty of time to contemplate the weirdness of this. I am stripped, bound, silenced and spread in this obscene position, so a man who loves me can enjoy my abasement and torment. I am angry, humiliated and hurting, and my cock is as hard as granite, burrowing into the painful nest of studs placed to receive it. The burrs are digging into my armpits, clamps punishing my nipples, studs tormenting my ass and balls, and all I can do is suck on the rubber cock stuffing my mouth and dream of revenge, listening to the leather strain and squeak.

Then another sound penetrates the hood: the trickle of water. I know this means trouble, so I strain to survey the room, digging the burrs into my armpits and the collar into my neck for my trouble. But I locate the sound: about 20 feet in front of me, a five gallon bucket is hanging from a pulley in the ceiling. The rope holding it passes through guides attached to the ceiling over my body, and disappears as well. I can barely make out the tiny stream of water falling from a hose in the ceiling into the bucket. A chart on the wall behind the bucket marks off stages of the coming descent: two bright red Xs mark the points I can expect something painful to happen, telling not what but when. The bucket is descending slowly, and the first X is about two feet down.

It takes a long time, and when the bucket reaches the first X I am sweating and tense. Greg has measured exactly, and when they meet I feel the jolt of an object pressing against the lips of my ass. His careful aim scored a bullseye. I squirmed and fought, trying to resist the invader with my sphincter muscles, but as the bucket filled, the ropes and pulleys somehow transmitted the weight to whatever was trying to fuck me. It felt like a damn baseball bat! It was vibrating a little, as if eager to get on with it, and all at once the pressure was too much and my ass swallowed the head of the thing.

It was just the beginning. As the bucket continued inexorably down, head after head along the shaft of this bastard roughly spread my asshole and penetrated. I actually was forced to work to accommodate this mindless rapist, straining against the leather that held my ass and balls, to work the shaft into my ass without it tearing me apart. Sweat is running down my eyes, pouring off my back, running down the crack of my ass to meet the thing boring into my ass. Each convulsive jerk I gave, trying mindlessly to free myself from the attentions of this monster, strained my legs and shoulders, dug the studs in the strap into my ass, twisted the burrs in my sopping armpits, and damn near pulled my balls off. But I couldn't help myself. Greg loves this point, when I lose control. I've spent several evenings tied to chairs while he shows tapes of his greatest hits, pointing out the exact moment I lost control and he conquered. I jerked, fought, and sweated uselessly, screaming soundlessly into the gag, helpless and foolish.

I thought I would lose my mind. My ass was ravaged and still the thing came on, each head seeming larger and rougher than the last. About the time I thought the artificial cock ramming its way up my ass was going to meet the artificial cock rammed down my throat, the bucket reached the second X and phase two began. The base of the rapist reached my ass and started to press against me. My ass lips were spread wider than ever-there was no last narrow neck on the shaft to give me relief. All across the cheeks of my ass something was pressing in, as though the mechanical rapist had hips like a man. It wasn't smooth, but covered with what felt like very stiff, wiry hair: the rapist has a bush too, and the whole weight of the bucket is pressing it into me.

I know what's coming before my ass lights up like a switchboard: the "hair" is copper wool, wired for my pleasure. If I wasn't gagged by a pro, they would hear the scream across the block. The tender lips of my gaping ass have been given particularly close attention, and are going off like fireworks. The more I fight, the more the sweat pours down me and the worse the jolts get. Now my cock and balls light up, the studs in the leather mesh electrified as well. The voltage travels randomly; now in my ass, now my balls, now making the head of my cock feel like it's plugged into a cigarette lighter. Now everything lights up at once, making me nearly bite off the cock in my mouth, until there is a sudden respite, leaving me limp and moaning as the breath whistles through my nose and I brace myself for the next shock. Bound, furious, fucked and electrified, I scream and scream, never making a sound.

I have no concept of how long this lasts when I notice Greg in front of me, calm and unhurried. He remains a sightseer for a while, then crouches and gently cups my tortured balls in his warm hand. "Think how wonderful it would feel to be out of all this," he whispers. "Anything you want to tell me?" I want to kill him, but I waggle my head frantically. I'll do anything to stop it-take out the gag and I'll promise anything; plead, beg, debase myself. Not his plan, though. We begin a long, tortured game of bigger-than-a-breadbox, him asking questions about the hidden key, me nodding yes or no and trying uselessly to make him understand the words "beer can". "Is it above the kitchen counter or below?" "Inside a cabinet or out?" If I hesitate, hoping to make him take out the gag, he walks away and lets his machine torture me alone for a while, then comes back and says "Ready to talk now?" Let me, you bastard.

I thought it would take all night, but at last he is before me, key in hand, stripping off his clothes and uncovering the chiseled chest, tight beautiful ass, muscled legs. He unlocks the chastity belt carefully, and the beautiful cock springs free at last. Sauntering to the wall, he unhooks the bucket from the rope and sets it down, easing the terrible pressure on my ass. Stepping behind me, he does something that stops the electrical current, and thankyou god, slowly draws the rapist out of me, head by head, agony and ecstacy. I am crying with relief.

He is behind me, between my spread legs. He slowly lowers himself onto me, cushioning his cock and balls on my spread ass, chest weighing down my bound arms, powerful legs moving against mine. Stretching until his mouth is resting next to the side of my head, he says softly, "Make this good and you're a free man." Out of pure meanness he reaches down and picks up the leather jock where he let it drop. He positions the basket over the nose opening in the hood, and buckles the waistband behind my head. Every breath pulls in the deep, strong smell of his manhood.

Greg is an accomplished cocksman, and I did what I could to make it memorable for him. I wanted to see him, but the best I could do was bend down to watch the muscles in his legs working, flexing, straining. He worked me over long and hard, as long and hard as his fucking machine,but it was human flesh working against mine, real balls pressing into my ass. He came with a roar and a rush, feeling like he would blow my head off. He lay prone on top of me for a long time, relaxing and listening to me grunt and beg into the gag.

He pulled on his jeans and boots before me, lingering and teasing because he knew I wanted his body bad. I heard him cross and pick up the bucket, and in an incredible rush empty it over my back. After the shock it felt almost good, washing off the sweat, pouring down my ravaged ass, dripping cool from my tortured cock. I was concentrating on keeping the water out of my nose and dreaming of what it would be like to be free, and I didn't see him rehang the bucket on the rope, now high on the wall again.

He crouched before me once again, cool and detached except for the sweat gleaming on his chest. Again he bent close and took my chin in his hand. Looking me in the eye, he says quietly, "Not good enough." I hear him cross the floor and bolt the door behind him. After the sound of his boots on the stairs dies away, I'm alone with the sound of water, trickling into the bucket.

© 1997 The Outbound Press, Inc.

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Tagged anal, cbt, chastity, interrogation

Gasmasks make me horny

Posted on February 28, 2012 under Pictures

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Yum MX Boots

Posted on February 23, 2012 under Pictures

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Somebody get these boys a real muzzle!

Posted on February 21, 2012 under Pictures

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So, football gear...

Posted on February 16, 2012 under Pictures

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First Experiences

Posted on January 15, 2012 under Reflections

So between Tynan Fox's post here and Vagabondage moving back to Chicago, I thiought it'd be cute to write about my first experiences in kink-land.

I was kind of scurred of meeting people off the internets, hence waiting until I was almost 22 to do this, but I finally sacked up and accidentally double booked myself for an evening in oh... July '08ish. The first date we'll just say was not notable, but after that I got to meet Vagabondage and his adorable bio-doggy!

And have my first scene! That I topped in... But holycowmyfirstscene! I put him in my neoprene sleepsack and jerked him off. It was a sooper simple scene, but hey it was my first and it was fun!

My second scene ever was with Vagabondage again. We met up shortly after, I think it was during some Puerto Rican pride thing, I remember hearing fireworks going off outside his apartment. He seems to think we wasn't this rough on me for my first bottoming experience, but I maintain that this was indeed the first...

My legs we tied spread apart on his bed, and I was sitting up with my arms tied behind by back and to the headboard. Then I was put in a muzzle with a rope attaching the muzzle through a pulley to my balls. So it was a fun stress position, and any struggling was felt on my balls. So of course Vagabondage alternated between tickling me, edging me, and whacking my thighs with a riding crop! It was pretty awesome, and we became regular play partners.

Amusingly, at my first Chicago Rubbermen Night was when I met Sir, who lent me a rubber t-shirt! So two of the people I'm closest with were among the first I met in kink-land. The Universe is cute that way!

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Recent adventures of my friend David Ocean lead me to create some fun image macros about preventing santorum...

Good Guy Greg Anal Sex

Scumbag Steve Prepping

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The Submissive's Dilemma

Posted on December 23, 2011 under Reflections

There seem to be two very common themes in kink-land. Everyone seems to want more frequent play, and the ratio of doms to subs is very much skewed towards the doms. I'm noticing, after being chastity for 8+ months now, which I'm sure is a factor, it's really easy to find bottoms to tie up. I don't really have to extend myself to find opportunities to tie someone up. Those opportunities seem to flow fairly naturally to me, and I think this tends to happen frequently to people that switch like I do.

So it's easy to take this stance that I don't need to seek out domming situations, they simply come to me. The onus is pretty much on the bottom to seek me out. But recently I've been realizing that I also tend to turn around and wonder why people aren't approaching me as frequently about tying me up. So putting the two thoughts together, I suppose I need to be less shy about getting people to tie me up.

I'm not saying this is anything wildly profound, just one of those wonderfully simply realizations. It's also kind of weird too, that it's the submissive that more often than not needs to be the instigator. If you're submissive like I am, you'd like nothing more than to be told when to show up and not having a clue what's going to happen other than knowing that it's going to be a wonderfully hot challenge. And of course such a scene isn't practical until you've found a dom that's intimately familiar with how all your buttons work, not to mention one that has the initiative to put it all together for you.

I'm curious if it's a product of the dom/sub ratio, or some product of how doms and subs interact with each other. Or perhaps it's simply a product of how I interact with people and the circles I travel in. It may be interesting at some point to try and take the attitude that subbing opportunities flow naturally to me, and see what sort of effect that has.

For now however, I shall challenge myself to be less shy about asking for those wonderful subbing opportunities.

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6 Months of Chastity

Posted on November 03, 2011 under Reflections

Last week marked an important milestone for Sir and me. Last winter I pitched the idea of being in chastity for 6 months, plus some potential punishment time. After finally getting a chastity device I liked, and double checking my dick was happy with it (which is a whole other story...), I gave my dick over to Sir on April 27.

Did I mention some potential punishment time? I completely let when I'd orgasm up to Sir, but we agreed that an orgasm with his blessing would add 1 week, an orgasm at an event weekend with his blessing would add 2 weeks, and any other orgasms would add 3 weeks. I think about halfway through the summer I had already added about 2 months more to my sentence. Mostly from being bad at letting Sir know when to stop edging me. Or the two of us getting so worked up in a scene that Sir just let me cum anyway.

Also worth noting is that Sir wasn't Sir until about 2 months into this. I was very excited and honored when he asked to collar me. It's been pretty fabulous so far, he's certainly become my best friend here in Chicago over the last year or so.

Which of course also led to a conversation we had about 4 months into our 6+ month arrangement. One very horny afternoon for the both of us, which I can remember quite clearly from the nervous excitement, we agreed that it'd be really fun to just keep me locked up indefinitely. So while last Thursday marks the end of the 6 month period, and while with the punishments my release probably would've been pushed back into next year, we decided that for the foreseeable future I wouldn't be let out anyway. The idea of not being able to masturbate again still gets me hard every time (though Sir and I were talking last night about a scene where I would masturbate myself in front of him and cum all over him...).

Needless to say we're both extremely happy with the situation. I was just now thinking, I don't really fantasize about chastity anymore, I'm living it as much as I'd ever want to. Reading chastity stories still gets me wound up, which is always fun, but now one of those stories could just as well be about me.

Sir and I also had an interesting conversation last night while he was edging me. I suspect I'm too left brained to ever get to a point where I'm begging to cum. Sir had me deliciously close for a while, and whenever he asked if I wanted to cum I kept saying it was up to him. I'm just as happy wanting to cum as I am cumming. Which isn't to say I haven't had some amazing orgasms (and I don't cum quietly, as Sir's housemates can attest...) , but I really like the idea that he's completely in charge of them. I don't really want to ask for one of beg for one, it almost takes me out of the ever important sub headspace. Who am I to suggest when Sir lets his dick shoot?

So it's been a really horny experience. I'm pretty much living out a fantasy. Sir and I both still deliriously happy about the situation.

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So even after playing around with it for 3 years I'm still not sure I understand the pain I like and the pain I don't like. It doesn't help that the pain I do like is this weird place between the two.

The pains I don't like are people just screwing around at an event. If we're at the bar and you come up an start playing with my nipples I'll probably get pissed at you. I used to just let people do it, but in the last few months I've decided to stop people. I noticed I kept leaving events angry from people just doing shit to me.

Though the asking people to stop playing with your nipples or biting you in public has it's own set of annoyances. Apparently it's hard to overcome that reputation. At one party I wound up launching an unsuspecting puppy-in-a-straitjacket out of my lap in an effort to get away. I also had someone tell me "I don't want it I don't want it I don't want it," isn't a good safeword. Err, sorry, how can I be more clear?

Mildly related note, things like "No means no unless you're hard," and "No safeword" are giant pet peeves of mine. Like hazing fantasies, I understand it gets you hard, but it doesn't really send a good message about how realistic such notions actually are...

So the pains I do like... Contrary to the previous note about just screwing around, sometimes if I'm really into some heavy petting a good bite can be great. And I've got the marks to show it from a particular rapidly-becoming-more-than-friends-puppy. Though I think in general I like pain in more deliberate forms, as part of a controlled scene. Best of all is if I'm restrained.

I'm not 100% sure about this, but I think if I have to hold back my reaction to pain, that equates to me holding it in, bottling it up and internalizing it. Which is less than fun. If I'm tied down and mostly immobile though, I can let it out without having to control myself. The restraints control me, and I can let the cathartic aspects of the pain right out.

So it's weird not liking it sometimes, and liking it other times. And even harder to explain to other people when I don't entirely understand it myself. It doesn't help when you say things like "You're going to have to tie me down if you want to hit my balls like that," and all the other person hears is "You're going to have to tie me down if you want to hit my balls like that."

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Wherein boys are like onions

Posted on June 10, 2011 under Reflections

“So is that [collar] cause you got a motorcycle? Are you going to join one of those gangs?”

Ugh. Yeah, not going to bother explaining D/s to a cow-orker who's more likely to laugh it off than to try and understand. But I've been thinking about it a little bit lately, and how I handle the D/s relationships I enter into. Especially since I just recently entered into one. Last week I accepted Chicagogear's collar, I could bubble about how awesome the whole thing is, but I'll spare you.

I've been thinking, there's a lot of layers to a D/s relationship. Each one builds on the next, and each one must respect the bounds of the previous layers.

On one level Sir and I have been friends for three years. That's grown over the last couple of months as we've become dumping grounds for each other, of stuff that's bugging us. He's also become part of my decision making process, I wonder what Sir would think about this solution? This is also the level where while we may be close, we also respect that we're individuals. We're not going to try and control the other's finances, and we recognize that we have other relationships in our lives like family and other friends.

The next level is where our kink interests overlap quite well. Sir is into some things I'm not into, like piss play, but I'm willing to indulge him and pee in his mouth anyway. He's not interested in the pain play that I enjoy, but he's more than willing to give my balls a good whack. In this vein, even though he's my Sir, I still dom him and tie him up too every now and then.

And then there's the top level, where I serve Sir and he keeps me in line. I wear his collar, and then probably the most significant part of this is that he keeps me locked up in chastity, something we both enjoy immensely. For the most part though we're very informal. I think most of the orders he's given me so far are to get ice and mix drinks in our rooms at IML. And I'm very happy to serve in that capacity, as I have trouble maintaining role play for any length of time (despite everyone telling me I'm going to become a pup). For the most part though we relate to each other as kinky friends, and he usually winds up tying me a lot more frequently than I tie him.

So that's how I think about the relationship. And I think Sir and I are mostly on the same page here too. It's certainly not as formal as what I've heard and seen in Old Guard relationships, but a lot of kink is throwing out the rules and finding what works and turns you on, right?

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Analyzing my Fetish

Posted on March 17, 2011 under Reflections

Had a kink-curious friend over recently for a weekend of kink-exploration. Many thanks to all my friends who made him feel welcome! We had a small conversation processing what he experienced with the little play we wound up doing. Thought it might be fun to reflect here what I get out of kink, and how I think about it. The prompts for these were specific questions my friend asked, but hopefully I've made them make sense in this format as well.

The big disclaimer here is of course this all reflects on my experience and how I operate. Everyone has their own tastes, everyone processes their kinks differently, and everyone is wired a little differently. This is certainly not the One True Path.

Usually after a scene I'm in a euphoric state that feels slightly disconnected from consensus reality. In pagan-land (and psychology-land I guess) it's called a liminal state. It takes some time to come down from. The pagans recommend eating or hugging a tree. I usually just sleep, cuddle, or wait it out.

The pain I experience after a scene depends on the pain play that was going on. Ball torture yields sore balls, tit torture yields sore tits, and so on. Usually if my balls are tied off or I've got tit clamps on I'll want them off right after an orgasm. Though I do like to just relax in the bondage after an orgasm.

Additionally, some forms of pain play aren't even erotic for me. Chest punching and flogging are more about what sort of headspace I can get into and what my body can withstand.

That said it's hard for me to stay aroused without some form of bondage and pain play. The orgasm is not necessarily important, but it can be greatly intensified from either the head space or from edging.

I greatly enjoy various forms of cum control. Sometimes after a scene the top will just lock me up in chastity and I don't get to cum for several weeks. It's frustrating, but the frustrating aspect of orgasm denial turns me on. I like the idea of my orgasms being completely controlled by my top.

And some times tops can't even figure out how to get me off, which is fine since I still enjoy the bondage and the pain play. The orgasm isn't necessarily the end goal.

So the two big components for me are relinquishing control, sort of an escapism, and exploring myself. Exploring what limits I can stretch my body to, and exploring with my own consciousness and what sort of mental states I can get into.

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My Mom is Awesome

Posted on January 18, 2011 under Reflections

So my Mom is pretty awesome. Admittedly, she did not take my coming out sophomore year of High School very well. (You're still on that?!) We're a Catholic family, but the lesson from Catholicism that got applied here is that no matter what, we're family. So I'm very grateful that I'm out gay to my parents and still have a great relationship with them. And now for the bonus: I'm out kinky to them as of this winter as well!

A few years back my brother got a tattoo on his back (I swear this is relevant). It's just a lil' 6" tall thing just at the base of his neck. My Mom hates it though. First time she saw it she stormed out of the room and barely mentions it since. She and my brother are pretty close, but I think this is one point of contention between them.

Fast forward to Christmas dinner where I was talking with my parents about my upcoming travels. My Mom asks what this event is in DC that I go to every year. I had probably made the mistake of just referring to it as "an event" a bit too obviously, oh well. I decide to go for broke...

"Mid-Atlantic Leather,"
"Oh. Is that an event where everyone wears leather?"
"Pretty much,"
"I didn't know you were into that. You don't have any tattoos too do you?"

So now Mommy knows I'm a kink! Didn't get into too much detail, which is nice. Amusingly, a tattoo is apparently more of a concern than wearing leather. I suspect she doesn't know what all that could entail, but if she prods further I'll probably wind up invoking the Mother's Right Not to Know. The bonus now though is I don't have to be so vague when I say things like "Oh yeah, Memorial Day weekend is never going to be a free weekend for me..." Or "Please stay out of that closet, that's where I keep my leather, and assorted toys..."

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Rhymes with Blastoise

Posted on January 11, 2011 under Reflections

So I never had any particular interest in anal sex. Which I always thought made me a bad gay. Then I met a few kinks with pretty much the same mentality. There's so many more exciting things than anal sex. Like autojackers and milking and edging. Rawr!

Butt! I've always had this fantasy involving a plug being locked in my ass. It's another thing a top can control on me. Another way they can remind me who is in control. Another very prominent way, in fact. There's no mistaking that full feeling.

So I bought some ass toys a few weeks back. Was quite fun to explore, really. They're hollow, so it's really interesting feeling a cavity there where my mind usually expects... umm... ass! Anyway, got a set of five plugs, going up to 2" in diameter. Much to my surprise I had worked my way up to the 2" plug in a little more than a week. Apparently my hole is as stretchy as my skin.

It's an interesting sensation to explore. And one of my play buddies has already incorporated it into our play. (Okay, really he's been wanting to plow me for a while...) If you saw me out at the bar last Sunday I was a little bit plugged, under his orders. And last time we played he tried some toys in me while I was in a rubber sleepsack. Was fun to play with! Almost as fun as the 4 hours of excruciating electro that followed!

So yeah, my mild interest in ass play is panning out. Fun times. Now I just have to fend off all the questions about fisting. Which wouldn't be too bad I guess, but not too high on my to do list either.

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Thoughts on Community

Posted on January 05, 2011 under Reflections

There's been a lot of discussion about the Leather Community in the fallout of this year's IML. If you're out of the loop, this year's IML winner is a transgendered man who uses a wheelchair. Let the record show that I think this is awesome.

I learned a lot about community from my college fraternity. Hazing jokes/fantasies aside, I'm still pretty involved with the fraternity; it's done a lot to shape who I am today. One of my more powerful experiences was discussing community at Undergraduate InterFraternity Institute. They defined it like this:

A dynamic whole that emerges when a group of people: participate in common practices; depend upon one another; make decisions together; identify themselves as something larger than the sum of their individual relationships; and commit themselves for the long term to their own, one another's, and the group's well being.

Which is a lot of fluff and bullshit. But the main thing I want to convey is that even with the broader pansexual BDSM community, we've all got similar interests, similar experiences, and similar challenges. We have similar formative and self-realization experiences. And in this society, we have a significant uphill battle to express our sexuality. We have to look out for each other's well being, even reaching across gender and fetish boundaries, whether we like it or not we are inextricably linked.

That I think creates a bond much deeper than any college fraternity. It's far more important than any particular gender, or fetish. I consider my fellow kinks to be brothers and sisters, people worthy of respect and dignity. We've all struggled to be who we are, and we're all struggling to figure out how best to express it. These are the things that make us a community.

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