knifeplay

After the whole awkward walking through the kitchen debacle, Craftsmate wound up trying out a bunch of floggers on me while I was tied down on his bed, ballgagged, and blindfolded with one of his ties. (Yeah, yeah, I know. Casual.)

At one point, he took out his knife and ran it over the line of the back of my knee. It’s been a really long time since I’ve enjoyed any knifeplay and my hand squeezed into a hard fist around the bedsheets. I heard Craftsmate chuckle and realized I’m one of the most transparent people ever.

Last night, we tried it again. I almost jumped out of my skin when I heard him flick it open. It’s a massively satisfying and anxiety-producing noise at the same time. He somehow was using it in a way that I was actually convinced he was cutting my arms, legs and stomach. He wasn’t, but I had gotten high with some people before then and marijuana always makes me really hypersensitive.

At one point, he reached under my shirt, which had been rolled up under my breasts, and tucked the knife into my bra. “You need to hold still,” he said, “or you’ll hurt yourself and it’ll be all your fault.”

In other news, having a kinky friend is kiiiind of awesome.

I love that feeling when that very last piece of clothing is cut from your body and it flutters to the ground. There’s such brutal finality to it, it’s almost poetic. It’s the point of no return, the crossing of the Rubicon, a thousand different clichés of that nature rolled into one experience.

Because, of course, the only reason a cliché is a cliché is for the harsh obviousness of its truth.

Game over? Really now? Are you sure?

Because, in my house, this is just about when the games begin.

My whole life.

Thank you, montecervesa, for this hilarious gif.

I don’t actually like being scared. I can’t sit through most horror movies, I can’t handle “death-defying” roller coasters. I jump about ten feet in the air if someone sneaks up on me. But, for some reason, some of the sexual situations I enjoy are probably about five times more risky and fear-driven than any of these things. And, oddly enough, I can handle them just fine.

You tease.

montecervesa:

Why, hello there.

bloody-rare-sex:

We play a game, she and I. We know the places in the woods where no one goes; those are our favorite places to walk. After ten minutes or so, my pace begins to slow. She keeps going, deeper into the forest, and when she is just out of sight, I change my path. Cut off the faint trail we’ve marked. Move between the trees. And then, when enough time has passed, my hunt begins.

And when I find her, she’s mine.

Sometimes, I frighten myself when I really pull back the now vaguely socially acceptable kinky fun I engage in to find some of the things that really grip me.

Hello, old friends.

“Buy the ticket, take the ride." – Hunter S. Thompson, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas.

Fear is an incredibly powerful aphrodisiac.

That means you don’t have to approach every encounter with genuine excitement and assuredness. Sometimes it’s good to be reticent, afraid. So long as you’ve consented and you trust anyone involved, being frightened of what is to come can be just fine. In fact, you might even enjoy it.

With a lot of the female libido being dependent on anticipation, build-up, words, foreplay, preludes to the main event than the actual finalized actions, naturally fear is a great tool when wielded correctly. It’s just another suspension of time, another little subplot on the way to the climax.

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