black and white – Page 48

At first glance, this photograph terrifies me. I audibly gasped when I first saw it.

I’m not sure entirely what bothers me so much about it. Maybe it’s the amount of devices/hardware being implemented. Maybe it’s the overwhelmed expression on her face. Maybe it’s the fact that the plug in her mouth reminds me of those stoppers in old bathtubs. Or maybe it’s that I am incredibly aroused by this image, despite how much it bothers me.

I think it boils down to the control that is clearly demonstrated in this picture. Whoever put her into this has full control over her orifices. How they’re used, who uses them, whether a particular one gets any release.

I try to imagine myself in her place and I cannot. It’s not that I can’t imagine being in that position, it’s just that I seem to lose thought and feeling. I would just become the holes. I would be someone else’s holes for their use until I completely and totally lost any sense of self, of thought, of feeling.

Equal parts sweet and devious.

Exactly how I love them.

And those freckles? Swoon.

Dear Dacry,

In response to your question, I don’t think tying me up, spanking me, and feeding me cupcakes should be limited to birthdays.

Okay, fine, maybe the cupcakes part.

<3,
Your tumblr girlfriend, Ivy

In response to the questions about whether or not I continue to do knifeplay:

I have referenced before that my most recent dom was not into the lifestyle at all before we got together. It’s pretty funny to think of that if you knew him now and how much of this stuff seemed to be waiting underneath the surface. Evidence of that?

Well, he collected knives. There was this huge, menacing one he used to bring out all the time to ~~scare the crap out of me~~ play. There was a smaller one he’d hold against my throat sometimes while I sucked him off (he put the dull side against my throat, obviously, but it still had the same effect). He let me watch him sharpen one once and eye-fucked me into next week whilst doing so. I swear it was like porn for me. It was probably one of the sexiest things I’d ever seen him do.

So, yes, I’d say the knifeplay wasn’t exclusive to one partner. I’m sure I’ll encounter people not into it at all and I’ll proceed accordingly. But, hell, if they’re game, I am more than willing.

The word passion comes from the Latin stem pati, which means to suffer and to endure. This was, of course, grounded in a very deep suffering on a religious level, but I don’t want to get into that right now.

What I’m more interested is how we use it now. Crimes of passion. Passionate love. Passionate sex. We simply throw this term around without even realizing what we’re implying. Crimes of suffering. Suffering love. Suffering sex.

I feel as if we don’t want to suffer. We don’t want to endure. And rather than seeing love as a means of suffering, we see it as an end to suffering. Which, in my opinion, it is not at all.

I don’t mean to say here that suffering is a bad thing. It’s not. Suffering is a human trait. It’s not necessarily being crucified or tortured or oppressed. It’s not even necessarily a bad feeling. It’s more of just this constant tug that drags us from room to room in life, the constant nagging that keeps humanity yearning, the innate tortured aspect of the human condition that allows us to feel so broken that we need someone or something to share and halve it. “You shall love your crooked neighbor with your crooked heart,” says Auden.

Love is suffering. Suffering is love. It seems we always talk about love as this very comfortable thing. And I mean love on all counts. Familial, religious, romantic, platonic, etc. Love is not benign. Love is not the solution. Love does not suddenly calm the storm, save the damsel, and feed the hungry.

And I think that’s why we get so shocked when love is not so simple and when we can’t just be like, “well, we’re here” and then just sort of close the book on the whole thing. Love doesn’t want to handle us lightly, it would drop-kick us to our knees whenever it had the chance. Love is this wild and crazy creature that is this embodiment of our suffering. So, no wonder love is passionate. Sex, too.

I think that’s part of the reason why I love BDSM so much. Aside from the trust, the control and the pleasure aspects of it, it’s an incredibly powerful physical manifestation of our passion, our suffering. The entire process is one of endurance. From enduring the suffering, you experience the pleasure. That’s a hell of a lost of passion there.

I’ll cut this little rant off right here before I just ramble on forever. But, God, language is mind-blowing.

Normally Sexy Porn Ruined By The Weird Or Inappropriate Or Nonsensical Setting Day: I’m Makin’ Porn Asbestos I Can!

As per the suggestion of Heart.

Sin’s basically got this one in the bag. Because, I never feel sexier than when I’ve washed myself off, applied a face-full of makeup, put on my “fuck-me” pumps and gone down to the local abandoned warehouse (you don’t have one?) to squat amongst the shards of spackle and rat shit.

(Please forgive my third grade asbestos joke.)

ifeelasincomingon:

Another “abandoned building in heels” photo shoot. Always a great example of my pet peeve, porn that doesn’t make sense.

Sometimes, it feels exactly like that.

Only Stoya can make God a three-syllable word.