personal – Not A Real Doctor

Handoff, Part Five

(Parts 1-4.)

How do you feel?
Dizzy.

That’s all right.
Little.

Oh yes? Not a big girl right now?
It’s not like being… young, for me. Just small.

Like something I could hold in my hand?
Yes, Mister.

Like I’m doing right now.
Yes, Mister.

Do you feel safe here?
Uh huh.

Do you feel all used up? All worn out?
… Maybe.

Or do you think you can take a little more?
A little more what?

Oh, so you are coming back to yourself a little.
Maybe. Mister.

“Maybe.” Well. Maybe I want to do a little something you won’t bounce back from so fast. Maybe I want you to be thinking about this for a long time.
Uh uh.

You think I won’t? Or you think I can’t?
I dunno.

Maybe I want you to beg before I let you leave this room.
I bet you can’t make me.

Guess we’ll have to see how much more you can deal with, then, won’t we?

It wasn’t far from the armchair to the bed; I stood up, took a few steps and dropped her back onto it. She made a little show of squirming to one side. I retrieved her and administered several blows with the flat of my hand. Despite several nervous statements earlier about how she was actually a bit of a pushover in the pain department, Ivy stayed mute and stubborn: the bratty side resurgent.

She’d also made several claims about her own tightness, and how she had to be really wet to take any kind of thick penetration, even her own fingers. The speculum exam had borne that out to some degree, but I decided that the hypothesis needed another test.

My fingers are noticeably larger than hers, but as before, she took the first two just fine.

Ivy’s wrists were still tied together at this point, which made it entertaining when she wriggled up onto her elbows and tried to crawl away. Her reward for that was being dragged face-down across the bed again, and another series of smacks. I hooked my thumb into her vaginal canal and, using the wetness that had transferred to the base of my first two fingers, worked on her swollen clit for a little while. Judging by her vocal reaction, this seemed to produce a complex emotional reaction for her.

“Are you ready to—“

“No, Mister,” she cut me off.

I don’t know if she knew she was taking three fingers, after that, but she did begin to emit muffled sounds of distress.

The series repeats: I’m not sure if it was in the same order, but the basic series of squirming, spanking, stimulation and penetration, making her take a little more with each step. She wasn’t wrong about being a tight fit. She had no trouble producing more than sufficient lubrication, though.

Around the time you get four fingers inside a human being, you start needing to contend with the basic skeletal structure of your recipient. The vaginal canal is a flexible structure composed of elastic muscle, which can be shifted and stretched, but the bone and ligament of the pelvis are fundamentally stronger and more rigid than that of the hand.

“How does that feel?” I asked, testing to see how far I could push the tapered shape of my fingers, whether I could press against her clit from inside. “Too much for you, little girl?”

“No, Mister.” (I’ve omitted the onomatopoeia which would have lengthened this statement considerably.)

“Oh, then you think you can take more than this.”

“I don’t know, Mister,” is what I think she was attempting to say.

“Don’t worry, Ivy,” I said. “I believe in you.”

I don’t know if she quite understood what was happening—being face down and all—but when I pushed all five of my fingers into her cunt, she took it like a champ.

thinkivykink:

Handoff, Part Four

(Parts 1-3 here.)

Every weekday morning, my bus to work passes the hotel D took me to. I’ll look up and, subconsciously, shift a little in my seat. It’s almost become a part of my commute now, seeing the hotel and remembering being spread open, being made small and helpless. I have felt myself become wet before, the sharpness of my memory manufacturing another sort of Pavlovian drooling entirely.
It wasn’t some sleazy hourly motel. Inevitably, I’ll see professionals in neatly pressed suits with their efficient black suitcases rolling along on the pavement behind them. Not to say that it was particularly swanky either. But I suppose my point here is that when I pass the hotel, I realize that I am perhaps the first and only person to have ejected a speculum onto its sheets.

The vibrations that had taken me over the edge were intense. At first, the speculum had rattled inside me when D lowered the head of the wand to the implement’s base. But I suppose I had clenched around it, because once it was still it was like a column of vibration, like something drilling into the earth. It went so deep that I nearly saw white. I don’t remember if I gave any cue that I was cumming – it’s become routine now for me to have to ask for it with partners – but I was before I knew it.

Afterwards, I had managed to steady my breathing. For whatever reason, over the past couple of years, I’ve been getting really good – if you can even call it a skill – at orgasming vaginally without clitoral stimulation. However, it’s often not nearly as intense. But my body doesn’t hold itself to its own rules. There’s this feeling that I get when I orgasm this way, like something in my head’s shifted just slightly and then something – endorphins? – is freed to rush out. Like twisting the kink out of a garden hose to release the pent up water. It’s more localized in my head than it is anywhere else in my body. But the feeling still lingered this time, made every part of me still feel alight and coiled. Even my clit was still tingling when I heard D switch the vibrator back on.

So I flinched at the idea of having more stimulation applied to it. I clenched up. And that’s when I felt the speculum slip out and found the telltale heat of shame crawling up the back of my neck.

”Ivy, we are going to finish this examination,“ I heard D say over the scrape of the speculum being closed. “Even if I have to bend you over the bed and insert it that way. Do you understand?”

I whined, but nodded nonetheless. The truth was that I was relieved to feel the speculum slide back inside me. I wanted it there, had missed the feeling of being held open almost immediately after the speculum had been pushed out. For as vulnerable and exposed as it made me feel, it also felt really, really good.
This time it wasn’t nearly as cold, and it slid home almost effortlessly. I wasn’t sure if he’d reapplied lube or if I was just that wet.

"Are you going to be a good girl and keep it in this time?” D asked, not waiting for my reply before he lowered the head of the wand to just above the hood of my clit. When D turned the vibrator on, I sucked in an inhale so sharply that it stung the arc of my hard palate.

D focused almost entirely on my clit this time, bringing me up near the point of orgasm before withdrawing once I neared the peak. A few minutes later, he’d done it again. Then again. Then again. Each time the window constricting slightly, even as he managed to get me closer and closer to plunging over with each edge. Soon, I was trembling, I was barely coming down between them. D was dragging the kind of cries out of me that scraped my throat raw as he worked me up and then withdrew, wordlessly, over and over.

For a while, it all blurred together. I don’t remember if I begged or not. I don’t remember when he withdrew the speculum. I recall being told to hold the vibrator against my clit by trapping it between my bent knees, but my legs quaked too hard for me to keep it still, even after two attempts and a sharp slap to my thigh. And I don’t even remember if he ever let me cum and, if so, how many times he did, though he must have. Because when he removed the bandage from my eyes, the room was for a moment soft and swollen. I felt like I was floating despite the heaviness in my limbs.

D had lain down beside me on the bed. As I blinked my vision back to steadiness, he pulled me into him. We’d take a break, he explained. He wasn’t done with me yet. “But I’m going to keep you just like this for a moment,” he murmured against my skin. “I want you to stay right here."

(Part one, part two.)

After initial visual inspection and baseline vitals were established for Ivy (hereinafter “subject”), the session proceeded as per standard protocol. Subject was responsive and aroused. Subject was vocal despite attempted self-restraint.

Of particular interest for this exam were the subject’s orgasmic threshold, pain threshold, and verbal or physical cues to indicate their approach. The following techniques were employed to glean data.

Subject’s glans clitoris and labia were stimulated manually.
Subject, while sight-deprived, was allowed to hear a nitrile glove being donned.
Subject was offered and accepted synthetic lubrication.
Subject’s vaginal canal was penetrated with a single finger. (note: concern about diameter expressed here, unusually early)
Subject was stimulated via vibrating wand fitted with silicone diffuser head.
Subject was induced to choose between body weight on said wand or sustained stress posture. (note: she chose tiptoes)
Subject was bent at the waist, and manual impact stimulus was employed.
Subject was eventually persuaded to count manual impact stimulus aloud. Impact was extended to the upper thighs and the soles of the feet, in addition to the traditional posterior site, as part of this persuasion
(Note that by this point self-lubrication had made synthetic reapplication redundant.)
Subject was penetrated with two gloved fingers. Vocal protest increased sharply. Significant pressure noted.
Subject was turned onto reverse side to allow for tactile examination of breast tissue and, again, application of the wand.
Subject’s legs were repositioned to allow for maximum exposure.
The exam proceeded to phase three.

As audible cues had proven effective in exciting the subject so far, she was granted another one: the sound of a speculum being unscrewed and opened. While recent advances have brought some comfort and convenience to the apparatus, it remains apparent that the traditional steel-and-screw mechanism carries the strongest connotations. As stated at the outset, the objective was to establish thresholds, physical and emotional. Connotation was therefore considered paramount.

Subject’s vocal reactions increased in volume again and began to lose coherence as the device was secured in an open position. Visual examination of the canal, while not a focus of this visit, revealed healthy tissue. Subject was palpated deeply on the anterior surface of the lower abdomen while still dilated, which produced significant vocal reactions as well.

It may be that the reader wonders, at this point in the report, what makes it worth recording in such detail. After all, procedure according to protocol can be condensed to a terse note or two. But beyond personal interest in the subject, it is here that the events of the session become particularly noteworthy.

The subject was stimulated with the wand a third time, with the longest duration yet. In this case the wand was applied directly to the base of the speculum, which was still expanded internally. This led in short order to an orgasmic response, despite the fact that vibration was transmitted primarily to the internal body of the clitoris and not the glans. Subject voiced a sustained, high-volume response and displayed mild muscular convulsion.

Subject was evaluated verbally once verbal capacity appeared to return. Subject’s feet were also observed to uncurl as time went on. While she was engaged in light conversation and offered a lightly mocking taunt for her failure of self-control, subject was observed and evaluated for refractory period.

When it was judged that said refractory period was elapsing, subject—still blindfolded, restrained, and splayed open—was given another auditory stimulus: the sound of the vibrating wand being reactivated.

This is the part where Ivy clenched in fear so hard that she forced the speculum out.

Handoff, Part One

“Take a moment and really LOOK at the diorama!” said the museum docent. “And close your eyes.”

“What?” I said. “Why?”

“Don’t just picture it! Try to feel it. Hear it,” she urged.

I peered at the fanciful nineteenth-century taxidermy case, which featured two lions fighting a probably racist caricature. Ivy, standing a few feet away, was waging her own battle with contained laughter.

“What do you hear?” said the docent.

“Screaming?” I said.

“Are you in creative writing?”

I looked at her, a bit furrowed. I realize that higher-education students come from many age brackets, but I am pretty far from passing for an undergrad.

“No?” I said, with a bit of hesitation; I mean, writing was—in a way—the reason I was here to visit.

“Well, if you were writing a story about this moment,” she forged on, “what would it feel like?”

I looked at the sand heaped around the bottom of the case, and the wild-eyed, splay-legged camel within.

“Hot?” I replied.

Ivy and Flora, actively pretending not to know me, were no help at all. It took me a few more minutes to escape and flee toward the larger east gallery, blessedly free of taxidermy, during which they were busy charming each other.

It was another hour before Ivy sidled up to me, alone, in a side room filled with burial artifacts that no one had ever bothered to sort.

“Usually when I’m considering whether to have a scene with someone,” I said, “I’d start with a conversation about our… you know, kinks and interests.”

“Right,” said Ivy. “But I think we’ve got that covered.

“Has it really been that many years since the first time we interacted?”

“Yup,” she said. “I was a baby.”

I winced.

“Cheer up,” she said. “I’m all grown up now!”

Later still, at the hotel, I ran my fingertips down her arms and felt her prickle and shiver. She was standing very still, lips parted; I ran my fingers back along her thigh, drawing her skirt up, and up, and up—until it became clear that she had chosen to forgo her panties for this first meeting with a new old friend.

“Naughty girl,” I murmured, smiling. “Is it all right if I call you that?”

She nodded, and took a deep breath. “What should I call you?”

“Well, we are almost strangers,” I said. “Why don’t we try… ‘Mister?’”

“Okay, Mister,” she said, in a voice that didn’t sound very grown up at all.

anjamolendijk:

fornix / 30X30 / oil paper wood / 2014

We didn’t have any lube in the house, so my left index finger was just teasing her tightness from underneath, her hips propped up on the pillow and ankles on my shoulders. I wet my other hand in my mouth and then made sure she was wet, too; I’d been smacking her around earlier to get her warmed up, and it worked. “Sorry,” she giggled just after she came the first time. “Am I in trouble?”

She was, if not in the way she thought. I pushed two fingers on my right hand deep inside her slippery hole, downward, not curling them up like I usually do. Then I pressed up with my left hand until they could feel each other. Through her.

She gasped and arched and grabbed the sheets. “Oh,” she remarked.

“Too much?” I said.

“No,” she said. “Keep going.”

I fucked her with my right hand. “Jesus,” she said, “I’m so wet I’m making pond sounds.” Then I tilted my fingers–mine can bend backward a bit; we’re both flexible in our own ways–and pushed until I felt, well, bone.

“What IS that?” she said, her eyes a little wild.

“I think it’s your tailbone?” I said, and probed a little harder. “No wait–I think it’s the back of your pelvis.”

“HOW?” she said.

I pulled my hand out and sucked some of her off my fingers, then drew a little diagram on her stomach. “Okay, so this is your vagina, and this is your cervix at the top. But it protrudes a little downward into the vagina, so there are pockets at the top and bottom. The vaginal fornices. The anterior one is what you can feel when I’m inside you and I’m pressing down on your lower belly from outside. Just now, I was exploring your posterior fornix.”

“It felt a LOT,” she said.

“Do you want more?” I asked.

“Yes please,” she said, and pulled my hand back, and then my head down between her thighs.

I’ll never completely relate to people who grew up with both parents.

Six years ago this week she and I met for the second time. Three years ago today she IMed me out of the blue. Two years and ten months ago, she sent me a blushing picture after getting off to a story I’d written for her. The next morning she sent a video of herself shouting at the sky about how much she liked me. We talked all day every day, to the point where I put my job in jeopardy. We had a world of secrets and code words and in-jokes.

Two and a half years ago, she asked me to delete and purge everything we’d ever sent each other, blocked me, and more or less never spoke to me again.

I am older than most of my readers here. (An uncomfortable number of you are about half my age, in fact.) I had plans for my life at this stage, and I still want the things I planned for, but now they seem as distant as they ever have. You fuck up, is the thing. You fuck up, and you tell yourself you’ll learn from it, but then you fuck up the same way over and over and realize all you’re learning is how to ride out the pain.

My memory has never been very good. I’ve relied on bluffs and tricks and devices to cover that ever since I was a kid. I carry a pen with me everywhere, to write notes on my palm; I wash my hands and then squint at them, trying to remember what they said a moment ago.

I have calluses on my hands and feet from beating ache into exhaustion. I have scars whose stories I don’t know anymore. I collect marks on my skin and try to trace them, but a map without a point of reference doesn’t lead you anywhere.

Two weeks from today, I’m going on a trip to visit our mutual friends, and she and I will be in the same city for the first time since 2008. If those friends try to get one of us to meet up with the other, we will each carefully avoid agreeing. The bruises healed a long time ago, but the body shies away.

This is a sentiment I see quite a bit on subby blogs, and I totally get why, but I think there’s a corollary that should be made explicit: it’s true, painfully true, for those of us who top as well.

I had a weird thought tonight that I’m trying to work out. It’s like this: I’m not a sadist, not really. I like control during sex, both self-control and control of you, but I don’t have the instinctive, immediate urge to express that through pain. When I do try it, I am usually overcome with concern that I’m doing it wrong, or overdoing it, or will cause actual injury due to inexperience or misjudgment.

Yet I like to watch women being hurt, in certain ways, to some degree. It gets me off. I’ve always tried to reconcile that as “some things are just more fun in imagination,” which is true, but isn’t quite it.

My current hypothesis is that part of my brain wants the fantasy, the novelty, the variety of the tumblr pornstream of faces and bodies.

And another part, almost as strongly, wants to punish them for not being you.

(Photos by dollygasm.)

We know each other well, and I’ve heard a lot of your secrets, and I don’t want to seem ungrateful for that. The problem is that deep honesty isn’t enough; even total honesty wouldn’t be enough. Everything you decide to tell me only stokes this hunger for more of who you are.

I want to know more than just the pretty parts of you, is the problem–and they are such pretty parts. But I want to know how you sweat and itch and bleed and get sick, how your eyes look with a fever. I don’t want you to cry, not really, but if you do I want to be there. I want to see the places where you hurt yourself.

I wish I could feel every nerve in your body when you stand or stretch or ache or masturbate; I wish I could know exactly what you felt when I touched the back of your neck. I want to know where you get dry skin and which patch you missed, shaving your legs. I want to know every permutation of your smile lines and watch you pluck gray hairs or stray eyebrows. I want to catch you biting your fingertip to the quick.

I want to know who you were five years ago, and ten, and fifteen. I want the boring data, all your school papers and instant messages and emails to friends and lovers and, fuck, people you were trying to get to hire you. I want to see you gain weight and drop it, chop your hair off and grow it out. I want to have been there when you didn’t feel comfortable in your own skin. I want to watch you get old. I want to watch you grow into who you are.

I want to know which questions you won’t ask and which you won’t answer. I want to know what you dislike, and what you’re ashamed of hating. I want the things that make you proud, and whatever it is that embarrasses you. I want your moments of genius. I want your mistakes. I want every feeling and impulse. I want every single word you think.

If anything about this is unflattering, it’s unflattering to me: this borders on obsession, at best, and it’s not something I’m proud of. But when my control slips and I let on about how hungry I am, you always tell me time that you get it. It intrigues you. And I think that maybe we’re even, and just as much as I want to know you, you want to be known.

This is kind of unusual and personal for me, but this is also the only identity where I really talk about kink, so. Pardon the digression.

I’m a pretty typical top in bed. I like control, I like getting a reaction, I like the illusion of power; aside from a couple very specific circumstances, I don’t have much of a submissive side, and I have always struggled to understand why anyone would want to receive pain as part of sex. I sort of got it abstractly: endorphins, adrenaline, heightened pleasure from sensory contrast. Not to imply the two are always connected, but I’ve dabbled lightly in self-harm in the past, so I know a little about the relief involved in externalization too. But emotionally… I couldn’t get there. I just figured I could respect other people’s kinks without needing to understand them, and hey, if my mild sadistic interests matched up with someone else’s masochism, great.

Until this weekend.

You and I are very close friends but we live a long way apart. This was one of the few times a year we get to see each other, and the flirting had turned up quite a bit, and when you drink you get tend to sock me in the arm and get a little bite-happy. This time you gave me one serious, deliberate punch, and then you bit me in the same spot. Hard. Hard enough to leave marks.

I laughed about it, but it made my heart kick. I wanted more.

It became a game. We’d be in a crowd, or at the bar, or just around the corner from a group of friends, and we’d catch each other’s eyes and you’d pinch me. Or punch me. Or, once in a while, find a soft place and bite down. The first time I was just excited to have your attention, but soon the harder you bit the better it felt. I got cold chills and goosebumps all over.

I have quite a bit of height on you, and you are sweet and kind, so we do not present the most obvious form for this dynamic. That’s part of my fascination with it. I never expected to be walking around with my public face on, cheerfully looming over you, thrumming with excitement inside and thinking fuck, I hope she hurts me again soon.

I’m not claiming this is the universal masochist experience or anything, but I get it now. I don’t bruise easily, and the marks on your favorite spot–just below the shoulder of my right arm–are already gone. But I can still feel the soreness when I push it. I want it to last. I want to be able to touch part of my body, and remember, and feel where you were.