Oh, God. You have no idea. The whole break-in gone wrong thing just really gets me.
And she doesn’t know who He is.
black and white
“Whether you sniff it smoke it eat it or shove it up your ass the result is the same: addiction,“ William S. Burroughs, Naked Lunch
So, I think I encountered a sadist in a real-world situation. It was interesting.
I got a wax today. It’s all gone and I literally cannot stop looking at it and touching it. Because I’m far too easy to please. And it’s so damn smooth.
Usually, I keep to a routine of every six weeks, but my recent two months abroad threw it off. For those of you who don’t know, if you don’t wax for a while, the hair comes in thick and it hurts much more than usual to have it waxed.
I’ve had a sneaking suspicion for a while now that my esthetician had a sadistic streak. Not for the stereotypical “oh she rips off waxy paper from my vagina” reason. But more for her demeanor while she carries it out and the little comments she makes. This theory may have been confirmed today after the following exchange:
Her: I’m pacing myself. I’m trying not to torture you.
Me: Thanks.
Her: Because, you know, if I wanted to torture you, I’d just use a bigger strip and pull slowly.
And then there was this happy little distant smile that was gone as soon as it came.
By pure coincidence, my tumblr girlfriend, Dacry, and I experienced the same sexual first the other night. We spent some time discussing the finer details of it, giggling over its drawbacks, and appreciating the fact that, without consulting each other, we’d both happened upon the same thing.
Poor baby. It must be so hard to pretend you’re not liking every second of it.
I absolutely love breathplay. I love that swimmy little headspace you get into when your head starts to get light and things just border on a bit dangerous. I love the risk involved. I love the surrender.
But, I feel terrible for my partners sometimes. It’s a terribly risky game to play and I see them trying to maintain some sort of happy medium between going too light and going too hard. I don’t mean in any way that they’ve wanted to strangle the living shit out of me, but it is hard to curb it once you really get started and it’s also very difficult to push yourself further without worrying about the police report.
This is a test.
They’ve tried things like this before. It was much more contrived. There was fur on the handcuffs. There was an unwritten agreement not to push anything too far. It was, in its plainness, simple and safe, just a few twee forays into something vaguely perverse. Something they could laugh over later.
Now, no laughter. Just stares, expectation, a hope for some sort of common understanding in the shifting against the chair and the tightening of his fist in his pocket. Someone could say something, but it wouldn’t do any good in air this electric and unstable. It’s somewhere between vulnerability and a sort of bravado that had been, since today, unparalleled.
There could have been conversations, they both knew that. There could have been things hinted at when rolling over between bouts of sleep. But there was something gorgeous about this sort of spontaneity and the way she was, in this terribly available and humbling position, boring into him with such a gaze as to suggest that she would devour him were it not for how she were restrained. If he were not to partake of this, it seemed, there was a chance he could be swallowed whole.
This is a test. And the light on in the bedroom, the ringing telephone, that look on her face are all just factors. The answer’s somewhere else entirely.
Like that. Just like that. Take notes.
Oh my God this happens to me all the time when I wear dresses and carry my laptop in my shoulder-bag. Of course, I keep on top of it better than this cutie.
One of the little pleasures of the moment. Going commando.
Alice Springs by, Helmut Newton