Posts Tagged ‘hardcore’

Structuring a Scene

// July 28th, 2011 // Comments Off // BDSM Articles

The mention of  ritual in Dungeon play, or what is commonly referred to as “the scene” set me to thinking.   Consider that the word scene, “scenario”, denotes a very structured activity.  A scene is like a chapter in a book.  It is a  critical part of a whole story, one step of a journey from initiation to conclusion.  As a species, it has been said that with no compulsion to do anything else, we would prefer to spend most of our time absorbed in stories.   For the reasons why stories are so compelling, one is referred elsewhere, but for now, let us look at how structuring a scene one way rather than another may result in a radically enhanced experience for the players.

A while ago we talked about the expectations that might be set for a party.  Now let’s  look at one of the scenes that might occur at that party in a similar way.  What expectations to the participants bring to it?  Let’s imagine the case of a submissive woman and her non-playing but supportive partner.   She wants to be tied and flogged while her partner watches, so she can escape into a private fantasy which she knows will bring her to an ecstatic climax.  For the time being, her partner must become an actor,  must be able to sustain the fantasy that is being projected upon them. An amateur theatre production might for example thrust a man upon the stage with a black eye-patch, a stuffed parrot in one hand and a wooden cutlass in the other.  The sound system scratches out a non-descript shanty and someone chucks a bucket of water over the set.  Wanting to believe in the story being told, the audience settles back to await a rousing tale of swashbuckling and kidnapped maidens.  Incidentally, directors know how important the kidnapped maiden bit is.  But I digress!

This woman’s partner may be required to be a cold observer of her humiliation or a helpless wretch unable to save her from her plight.  Her fantasy is her own story, and the others in the scene are her supporting cast   We enter into the realm of participatory ritual theatre.  Our task is easier than it is for the Mummers or the presenters of Passion Plays.  Easier even than for those engaging in demonstrations of  dungeon techniques for an audience, since we have only to create the experience for ourselves and not be concerned with the communication of  the experience.

Starting with the conclusion and working backwards we know that we want the submissive to achieve her earth-shattering orgasm.  She may wish it to occur within a particular  physical and psychological context, such as betrayal by her loved one at the height of her physical pain.  Thus the scene will end with her partner passionately embracing another woman just about the time she reaches the limit of her tolerance for the flogging.  The flogger then, will be going for overload and stress, rather than an endorphin high.  The position assumed for the flogging will also be such that the subject will be able to get herself off.  A rolled towel between her legs, perhaps enhanced with the insertion of a butt plug,  can provide sufficient stimulation, if she has freedom to wriggle.

Now we come to the “why” of the story.  How has she ended up in this predicament in the first place?  If her story tells that she came blindfolded, naked under her dress, the toy already filling her bottom, then that is how the evening should start.   But we still don’t know  the “why” of it.  Perhaps she has been a silly, frivolous girl, always whining for more, unappreciative of what she already has.  In order to punish her she has been brought to the dungeon where her humiliation will be witnessed by amused strangers.  Now we have the key to the rest of the scene.  There must be an entrance, an air of formality and inevitability about the proceedings.  In the spirit of consensual non-consensuality  she must be able to believe that she has no choice other than to go along with what is to be done to her, and to create the necessary level of excitement, she must be afraid of what is going to happen.  Her expectation that she will be taken beyond her limits must be fulfilled, although it is important to point out here that we are talking about perceived limits, not real limits, for it is in the unexplored territory between where the true essence of dungeon play is found.  To go beyond a real limit is senseless brutality and does nothing but damage both the top and the bottom physically, mentally or both.

With the broad structure in place there are many details of costuming, props, narrative and environment that support that structure.  Next we will get into the details that work on the human psyche to develop and enhance fantasy.  Think about all the ways that folk have devised to ritualize their lives from the Goth scene to conservative Catholicism.

Until the next time,

May all your black clothes make it back from the cleaners,

SB.

Reprinted with permission from Wasteland.Com

Bad Girl, A Story

// May 26th, 2011 // Comments Off // Featured, Stories

She stands naked, feet comfortably apart so her legs don’t touch. Waiting. He usually starts sex standing up, so he can handle her all around. And so she is there. Vulnerable. Waiting. 

Coming from behind her, he slides one hand down and around to her belly, the other upward to the breast. His handling is sure and firm. He pulls her closer and kisses the nape of her neck, and she has a sense of being taken by the man despite first offering herself. His handling is gentle, reverent. It is always how he begins sex and one of the best ways he romances her. She watches as he worships her, turning to face her and lowering himself to his knees to smell and kiss her belly. Now running lips lightly over the downy hairs of her belly, a hand on her inner thigh, she is teased with the possibility that he will service her more thoroughly. He squeezes her thigh, reminding her of his presence, and begins to rub her leg. 

He is attentive, feeling the tension in her body, deciding if she needs it kinky today.

I had just told him my fantasies, and it was our first time playing with them. His finger slid slowly up and down the slit of my cunt, gliding over the glistening shean my body exuded, tacitly accusing. `It’s not my fault! I wanted to say. `It’s not my fault!’ His look is disapproving. Stern. “You are a bad girl, my Love. A very bad girl” he says. “You are wet.” There will be punishment. Of course.

Rising from his knees he took me by the hand and sat on the futon, pulling me around and laying me over his knee as for a spanking. But he did not spank me. Again he handled me, stroked me, relaxed me, aroused me, teased me. He moved my body, spreading my knees and raising my arms over my head, opening my body in all the ways a woman is supposed to keep private. Only when I am panting with desire does he check again for wetness. A slow, terrible test. I know I am failing it even as he fondles my sex, his fingers filthy with me. “Yes, a very bad girl.” The stroking is terrible. Knees wide, vulnerable. Soft, light strokes, a teasing, orgasm producing stroke. “Your cunt is wet.”

I felt my shame that day. The first time I ever really felt it. I felt my shame with every stroke of my sex, and with every slap of his hand. Not a hard slap. But it didn’t have to be. It was on my sex that he spanked me. “Stay still for it, my Love.” And he would take his hand off my sex. I learned that it would strike in moments, but I was paralyzed. I could only lay over his knee and accept the humiliation. Smack! His hand tapped me and the soaking wet lips of my sex made a loud slapping sound despite the gentleness of the spanking. “You are a bad girl. Your cunt is wet. You are a very bad girl.” He stroked me, expertly teasing my swollen clit, yet knowing when to go lower, preventing the orgasm. He spanked my cunt and slid up and down on it, reminding me of my shame. I knew I shouldn’t moan. If I was pleasured it would surely be proof that I was bad. But I could not withhold.
“Ohh.” His fingers teased. A quick slap elicited a gasp then another moan as I settled back down over his knees.

“You little slut, enjoying your punishment.” he said with just the right touch of derision. Yes, I felt my shame. And my orgasm was near.

He knows. The almost imperceptible tremble that rolled through her when he first touched her pussy is the sign. Taking her, he leads her to the futon and lays her over his knees, on her back. Pulling her legs up, he places her right leg on top of the futon, behind him, and holds her left thigh open and back with his left hand. Within moments she is transformed from a bad girl caught with her cunt wet to the ultimate position of vulnerability.

She will be cunt spanked, she has no doubt of that. Her wetness is inches from of his face, glistening and aromatic. He looks at it. She can’t hide it. “Your cunt is wet, my Love. You should be ashamed.” And the stroking starts. Coaxing the clit to swell, then avoiding it. She knows from long experience with his spankings that there is always warning before being spanked. One hand holds her, the other pleasures her. Always it is the hand that pleasures that also punishes. There can not be punishment unless that hand leaves her sex…
He lifts his hand. She tenses slightly, knowing that she will be punished with his next touch. “You are a bad girl. Your cunt is wet.” Slap! His hand stays on her, still for a few moments, then traces circles lightly, slowly, gauging how close to orgasm his beloved is. Then levitates. “You are a bad girl.” Slap! Insistently it repeats. Her legs held open, her cunt out for him to see, smell, and punish, dirty, terrible words spoken to her. Words about a woman’s role in sex and how a lady must act, and she is brought deeper and deeper into her helplessness until she is lost to the world. When finally she is about to cum with or without further stimulation he jams his finger up her ass and lifts her hips as he moves his mouth to her clit. His lips and tongue press into the hot wetness of her body, suckling the orgasm from her.

*****

`Oh God! I am lost! I am a bad girl! I’m naked! I’m wet! I’ve been caught! It’s up my ass! I’m so ashamed!

“PLEASE SIR, PLEASE DON’T SPANK ME THERE!”

I am pushed over the edge and I cum with more power than ever before. For minutes I moan, squirm, and throb as he holds me, controlling my hips with my asshole, mouth following my squirming sex, slipping and sliding over it. Sensitivity now acute, further stimulation is painful. Desperate now for him to stop, I hold still and spread wide, keening softly. He knows. He feels me spread myself and he knows it is time. He opens his mouth wide, lips forming a large O, and he holds this upon me, pleasantly stretching my sex as I throb untouched in his mouth.

Soon I remember that I’ve been bad, that he knows what I’ve done. He will surely inspect me again soon, and what will I say? A trembling begins in the depths of my gut, growing with strength. Submission now forgotten I draw my arms to my side as my hips buck faster and farther with every contraction. His mouth is sliding on me again and I explode, screaming without concern. His tongue orchestrates my gasps and screams…

*****

Again you spread. Your arms rise above your head, legs splay. You even tip your pelvis up to maximize my access. Just when you are terrified that I will continue, you hold yourself helpless to me. A well trained woman. Again I understand, and hold you quietly in my mouth, waiting for your recovery. Your clit ejaculates it’s nothingness into warm, moist air as my lips stretch you. We spend minutes like this as you calm. 
The trembling begins again…

*****

I never knew it could be like this…

“Spread.” You open your body and wait. Inspections are never hurried. First he checks your grooming. The shaved places. Under the arms. The lips of your pussy. Legs. Like a whore. His fingers approve of you. Everywhere they touch, they tease. He is there now, touching. Checking for wetness. A finger slides slowly up and down the slit of your cunt. He knows.

It’s time for your fucking.

French Coffee – A Story

// March 29th, 2011 // No Comments » // BDSM Articles, Featured

Do you know what “French sex” is? Well it is the European euphemism for a blowjob. My name is Nicole and for a while now when I am allowed to drink coffee, it will be “French coffee”.

This is my story. My husband and I run a private business. It is an Internet based operation that we run from our home. It is quite a demanding job, sometimes a bit stressful. And I am – or should I say was – a coffee-addict. A year ago I would drink 12 to 15 cups of coffee a day. Black and strong. No milk, just sugar. That was until the day my husband – who is also my 24/7 master – told me coffee for me would be a no go and that, if I really needed it, it would have to be “French coffee”.

This means drinking coffee now is a very humiliating protocol for me

It goes like this. If a really, really, really want coffee I will first of all have to beg for it. Next, when it suits him, I will have to kneel down and give master a really good blowjob.

And that is not just a “suck and swallow” quickly. No, he wants the works.

I must kiss, lick and suck until he is completely satisfied and ready to cum. If he does I must of course catch the sperm in my mouth, but I am not allowed to swallow it.

Master is a hard man to please and he has taught me well. So this part of the ritual is very likely to take quite some time. Usually something in between 30 minutes and an hour.

Only now master will pour me a cup of coffee. I will next have to empty my mouth in my cup, thus mixing the sperm with the coffee. This I have to do in front of him, still kneeling, so he can enjoy the scene. I can assure you, this is probably the most humiliating part of the process.

I’m sure you get the point by now. What is inside the cup after this is what master has baptized “French coffee”. I have to drink it of course.

This is the only coffee I am allowed to drink. And what is worse, this ritual allows for very clever embarrassment.

For example, whenever we visit others and people offer me coffee I have to say that only drink “French coffee”. When they ask for an explanation I will give them some story about a very special European brand or a very special blending, both of course unavailable in the United States.

And all I can do is hope that there is not another master somewhere who came up with the same idea….

Al Capone and Wasteland.Com

// March 14th, 2011 // No Comments » // Featured

So what does Al Capone and Wasteland.Com have in common?  Cell 181.  Along with it being the title of Wasteland’s latest update, it’s also Al Capone’s cell number at Alcatraz . “It looks like Alcatraz has got me licked.” Capone stated to Warden Johnston during his imprisonment.  He had finally meet his match at “The Rock”, spending 4 ½ years there.  When I watched Wasteland’s Cell 181, I knew why they had called it that.  The coldness, the isolation and the shear horror of it all.  I could fell it.  It sent chills up my spine.  Was this how Capone felt his first few night on The Rock?  Was this how he felt during his nights in isolation?  I guess we will never know.  For now though, we have Wasteland’s Cell 181.  Enjoy!  Although I’m not really sure that’s the appropriate thing to say.

Description (reproduced with permission):

The cold blackness haunted her senses. Her pale skin trembled with every pounding beat of her heart. She tried to free herself from her restraints, but failed each time. Her captor silently taunted her from the shadows, waiting for her to crumble beneath his will. Newcomer Cheri Rose came to Wasteland to explore and push her tolerance for pain. Under the swift and heavy hand of “Him”, she will soon discover a pain she has never experienced before in – Cell 181