We had fun with a special friend today who brought over some toys I’ve never played with, like this electrostimulation unit:
Of all of the sensation-providing tools kinky people play with, I think electricity might be the one I have the strongest natural attraction to. I’m lazy though so I’ve never sought out and experimented with it. Which might be a good thing because you know how crazy-excited I get thinking about tasing people, and just having this thing in our bed and feeling it made me want to PUT IT ON MY NECK. Which is a stupid thing to do so it’s a good thing nobody left me to my own devices with it or who knows what the fuck I’d have done to myself with it.
We did put it on my foot, though (you know I love having my feet played with, right?):
He also brought over these vibrating nipple suction tickly-cups:
I don’t like any sharp pinching pain on my boobs (no biting, no clamps, no hard pinching) but the SUCKING? With fluttery vibrations? FUCK yes! I need something like this. I will put them on whenever I have sex. Or wash dishes. Or just feel like being a super bovine fuck-slut mama.
Half of the turn-on for me is how obscenely hot it looks seeing my tits hooked up to a machine with those bulbous things pointing out and the way PUFFFFFF my pink flesh fills up the little cups.
Seeing and feeling these sucky-cups on my knockers made me want to take Sabrina‘s encouragement to get a real breast pump and try to induce myself to lactate (induct myself into the lactation club? I don’t know the proper way to phrase that).
I fucking LOVE the idea of being hooked up to a milking machine, too. Unfortunately I probably want something in between the power of this novelty toy and an actual industrial-strength breast pump, but I would love to have video of my boobs being alternately squeezed and sucked by a machine. A big part of all of this is I love machines and wires, I think, and the ritual of hooking a human body up to them. The more sort of old-fashioned and cumbersome, the better.
I don’t know if I actually want to lactate (though I know it would make me more of a cash cow in the porn world), but it might be a good idea since my breasts are deflating as I lose weight. I don’t want to get implants or surgery, but it would be nice for work if I could keep my tits more on the engorged side. Making myself lactate could do the trick.
I have loved having body hair on and off, but I’m looking forward to getting on a waxing schedule. Tomorrow I’m getting my brows, underarms and lower legs waxed . . . and my first Brazilian wax. With the intention of never wasting time putting a razor to my skin again for purely maintenance reasons.
Nothing against razors, nothing against hair . . . I’m just sick of fucking with it and it never gets thick and full and furry enough to please fetishists anyway.
Now that we live in a city part-time and there’s such a thing as online scheduling to easily make appointments for such things with a variety of providers so I don’t have to schedule a month in advance (as we do in our small home town), it’s convenient, sensible and time-saving. Also: I’m getting white hairs in my pubes and eyebrows, and it’s a lot more disconcerting than I imagined it would be.
After getting my first bikini wax I loved the smoothness and softer, slower grow-out.
I’ve had a handful of nice offers to shave me, and am particularly tempted by the people who are handy with straight razors, but I really enjoy getting waxed by professional ladies in the non-sexual atmosphere of a salon or spa. Here’s why:
- I like paying for a service (rather than arranging & negotiating & scheduling a social interaction/exchange)
- I like the name for them (aestheticians) and observing these women as they studiously perform these intimate acts on me alone in a small room, just the two of us but with this marvelous detachment they exhibit, focusing very intently on tiny details (recreating these scenes in my mind’s eye I almost imagine them wearing monocles)
- RITUAL – I love rituals: they make my mind and spirit and body better (before, during and after)
- I enjoy the sensations – depilation via wax is very dynamic with rhythms, contrasting temperatures, and extremely varied tactile stimuli . . . including bursts of (tolerable) pain
Having hot wax applied to me and my hair ripped out is definitely erotic to me, but in a private way that not only doesn’t pressure me to respond to it in that way (on the contrary, it’s important that I hide that appropriately), but allows me to enjoy the (unintended) humiliation of it (being humiliated by women is a hot button for me that I haven’t had pushed nearly enough). It’s meditative, absorbing, and full of exquisite sensations and scents.
I’m excited and curious to get SO MUCH of my body waxed in one session . . . having the ritual drawn out, being challenged a little more (from a pain tolerance perspective) . . . and being immersed even more deeply, I’m guessing.
And then being able to say a simple thank you, PAY FOR IT WITH MONEY. . . and go right back home to rest, feeling relaxed, peaceful, and cared-for. Without owing anybody anything. Without talking. Without having to communicate my pleasure, instead getting to savor it in my body without translating it into words or physical reciprocation. Allowing my face and body to be lit up and alive inside and out, but languidly so.
I might even come home and cry until I go floppy with fatigue. I might even be crying right now. Hard.
I want to be gently attended to like I’m not even capable of bathing myself. Like ? doesn’t even want me to bother my sweet little dirty head with that because ? will do it for me, lifting my heavy limbs . . . rubbing me with oils and medicines, reassuring me . . . forgiving me my exhaustion and stupidity. Telling me to sleep and that everything will be okay, and the medicine from their big crazy dick will be ready and waiting for me. And all I have to do is lay there and take it. Quietly. And then there will be soup in bed, more naps, and then maybe louder medicine. When I get my strength up. Won’t they be proud? And keep me all to themselves? And I can cry if I want to and be ugly and they will keep on fucking me and making me feel precious and wipe my mouth afterwards and bring back more raw thin strips of melty red meat into my small safe sickroom and sweet soft smelly bed.
I think I might be getting old enough and relatively-safe enough and tired enough to be small again. I want a big(?) strong(??) manly(?!?) slave(?!?!?) of few words to pretend to be my grandpa daddy brother doctor, pretend he loves me unconditionally and we stay up together all night after the rest of the audible world falls asleep. I want to be the tiny apple of the eye when we’re around each other. The late late show, brushes on drums, a radio station only we can hear . . . scrambled eggs just for the two of us. I have no memory of Grandpa cooking like that for anybody but me. And not wonder if he forgot about me for someone more grown-up or is embarrassed that people might notice we belong to each other or that he will disown me. Sometimes. At night, or in the heavy summer. I want him to be so proud of me when I grow up. Give me the clicker and laugh at what I pick out.
We had that once or a few times or in certain ways with Rugaru. It was insane, but there were some hours and words and feelings that will feed me for the rest of my life even though the rest of it is a big part of what’s making my subconscious terrified lately.
A couple of my favorite hairy pictures of me taken in Boston more than thirteen years ago:
On this day we didn’t shoot a nudie pic of me, but we did shoot a new picture set and video of Delia:
Not sure when she’ll edit them and post them, so consider yourself teased! She shot a huge creamy load, too. 😉
I spent my evening hours on the phone with my wanker, who coaxed me into taking remote control of his computer AND CREDIT CARD.
The buzz that gave me was almost as intense and disturbing as when I ejaculated the other day just from watching someone getting tazed on COPS.
Thanks to everybody who’s played a taboo role with me for fun, or even better . . . with me AND Delia (like DaddyW below).
Trigger alert: don’t click for more if you prefer to avoid seeing images containing any bdsm and/or suggestions of taboo role plays.
Getting my hair re-blonded yesterday was an interesting follow-up to getting my shots (I love how that makes me sound like a dog who constantly lives on the edge of rabies).
The chemicals-for-salons people discontinued my particular color of bleach so our girl applied a different kind of paste to my scalp and foils. The kind you can really FEEL burning into your freshly-picked head-scabs. Maybe I’ll get cancer from it, but it feels sooooooooooooo good!
We didn’t have time today to ask Lightning Allie if she knows of a standard operating procedure recognized by hair fetishists for measuring length of hair, so this may be inaccurate:
I think seventeen inches plus is pretty impress for just getting a trim yesterday AND for having chemically-processed hair. Is it?
It’s cloudy today, with a 70% chance of rain.