29 October 2009

Rainbow choker HNT

I LOVE this drapey style!!

28 October 2009

Transgender thoughts

I am sitting in Gender & Society class today, discussing the difference between those who identify as drag kings/queens, genderqueers, transgenders, or simply (simply! Ha!) as gender non-conformists. I am watching a beautifully androgynous transgender person- whom I find wildly attractive, by the way- move gracefully, strongly around the room, soliciting responses and elaborating on explanations. Their voice is low for a woman, high for a man, but measured and resonant in a way that I find incredibly sexy, and it makes me think of you.

It makes me think of you in that beautiful polka dotted dress, walking quickly and gracefully in heels. You are gender-nonconforming, genderqueer whose long slim thighs are beautiful to me, whose arched feet and rounded toes, muscled calves and smooth skin delight me. You are my gracile boi whose slim hips, lean back, high cheeks, wide eyes allure me, tempt me to run exploring fingers over your skin for hours until you whimper and squirm in need and pleasure.

Our instructor for today is discussing transmen now, discussing options for sex organs and restructuring of the clitoris into a penis. Testosterone, when combined with androgen, usually causes the clitoris to enlarge, and when it is released surgically from the pubic bone it forms a sensitive and operable cock. It makes me wonder how large my clitoris would grow with testosterone, how sensitive it would be when I fucked you.

I have this image of my changing body, of my breasts slowly tightening and becoming smaller, my face filling out into more masculine planes, the first teenage peach fuzz sprouting on my chin while my hips slimmed and my hands grew wider. I imagine my clitoris growing, hardening, while I shudder each time it brushes the fabric of my jeans for weeks, unaccustomed to so much sensitive flesh exposed. I see you before me, kneeling, taking my clitoris in your mouth and sucking it like the cock that it will be while I shudder and clench my fingers in your hair, understanding for the first time the allure of the blowjob.

I imagine your body changing, as estrogen and androgen reshape you into the person you are so much of the time already- of your shoulders slimming, tender breasts opening like buds on your chest, your facial hair dwindling and the bones of your face growing more slender and feminine. I envision your hips widening and a softness stealing over your body, a roundness as your hair grows out and your lips become even fuller. I imagine how dainty you will look, you who have already mastered the high heels I could never wear, in your soft sundresses and pretty, delicate shoes.

I imagine us together in bed, hands running over skin as we explore these new forms, learn our new selves, new partners, and both cherish the old and welcome the new.

22 October 2009

20 October 2009

Written by Actaeon: Movie Theater

I have few expectations as we walk into the theater; she greets me with a wide smile as she always does, and I smile as I kiss her, that twinge of excitement as always makes my heart skip a beat. She sweetly takes me over, and lets me know what we're watching tonight-- Where the Wild Things Are . I feel ambivalent about the film, but I know that watching it with her will be more important than the movie itself.

We walk in, and I'm nonplussed by the empty theater. It's the afternoon; of course no one's there. But when she guides me to the very top row, I suddenly realize that I'm in for something new. I grew up reading erotic literature on sites like Literotica; I'm no stranger to the idea of play in a public place like this, but suddenly with a rush fantasy and narrative blend into reality.

As we sit, she smiles and notes the low-set armrests, and I smile, nodding, not really processing the significance. It means we can get closer, that's nice. I wonder idly if the designers of the interior of the theater had what would happen in mind.

The film starts, and we watch like any couple would; I munch on my gummi bears, a childhood favorite, and I smile as we hold hands. Shortly through the film, she pulls me into her chest, and I smile, cuddling up to her. She's so warm, I love resting like this; it feels so incredibly intimate. I haven't been feeling overly sexual for the last day or so; I'm going through a hormonal cycle at the moment, at least, that's what I'll blame my pimples on. And resting there, she slides her hand down my open button-down shirt, resting her hand there for a moment.

I feel myself flush instantly as her fingers rest on that sensitive place; they're still so tender, my body reacts quickly. I shift uncomfortably; she hadn't let me wear underwear in a while, and I felt my sensitive cock rub against the denim.

All too soon, she begins whispering in my ears, reminding me of how much of a fucking slut I am, and I blush harder, realizing that, yes, I am quite a slut. My cock's so hard in this theater. A family is nearby, in the otherwise empty theater, just far enough to be out of view, thank god. But I can hear them, I can hear the mother speaking to her children, and I'm ashamed. But not ashamed enough to want her to stop rubbing and pinching my nipples. And that is why, among other reasons, I'm a disgusting whore.

She begins caressing me, and kissing my neck. I try hard to stay still, to keep from moving, from making any show of my maddening need for more. I never think, oh, god, I want more-- it's deeper than that, something that escapes language. And I want it. Oh god, I want it so bad, she's running her fingers along my chest, I feel her wet tongue against my neck, and she turns my head, kissing me deeply. She turns my head back, and murmurs, a slightly ironic tone in her voice, "Watch the movie.."

She's nearly got me moaning out loud, now, as I watch the film. It's difficult to concentrate on the movie, and difficult to concentrate on her caresses, at once. I'm entering a strange headspace, and it's hard as well to concentrate on the fact that I'm in such a public place. When she whispers in my ear, she reminds me that yes, I'm a slut, I'm right there in the theater, practically begging to cum on my chest, and I feel myself harden. Yes. I am a slut. I am her slut. I want to crawl down onto the floor and bury my face into her moistness and suck her to orgasm. I want her to cum on my face. I want to feel her hot wet sticky cum on my mouth, I want to be bathed in her fragrance.

She has me undo my belt, and pulls my tender cock out of my pants. Oh god, I'm so painfully aroused; I listen with horror, watching the staircase, waiting for a cop to silently walk up and to expose me with a maglite. But no. I'm safe here, safe enough for Mistress to stroke my cock, to murmer into my ear. For me to make little whimpering sounds. I want her more than I can bear. I'm happy.

I'm forced to keep watching. It's not exactly a children's film, as she says-- I feel conflicted about it. I feel conflicted about myself. And I feel conflicted about the hand on my cock. I grow soft; she asks me to stroke myself. And I do. And I grow hard again, and it makes sense again. I'm a slut. That's what I am.

I want to cum in the theater, right there, I want to feel her shudder under my head as I cum for her, and eat it, and listen to her pleased murmurs, I want to hear the smile in her voice, the lovely little cruelty there. She tells me that she wants to fuck me, right there. The thought scares me, but I would open myself for her, I would bend right over that chair infront of her, cling to it, stay silent as she fucked me. As long as I could.

In my fantasies, the theater is crowded, and what starts as a subtle groping grows into a massive orgy, some bizarre feast out of the past; where humanity touches its roots, and chooses to make its fantasies reality. I feel the impression of the pressing reality that's been tearing at the plastic parapets of our happy little civilization.

I want her. I want to feel covered in cum, I want to feel it flooding my mouth, my ass, I want it in my hair, on my face, covering my back, I want to feel its stickiness dripping from my chest, I want to shake as I'm cold and aching and left sore and bleeding and crying, tossed into a small cage, a plug stuffed into my ass, a gag in my mouth, left to freeze and shake and eventually sleep. To be woken up to the same process the next day, and the next day.

And here, in this theater, I feel that reality pressing me, pushing me, holding me down and raping me.

15 October 2009

Steel Collar HNT

This is the collar I want for my boi eventually. Isn't it gorgeous?

13 October 2009

Give a gal a hand?

So the lovely Miss Gigi has run into difficulty- her apartment caught fire, and she is currently struggling to rebuild.

Miss Gigi is a fantastic member of our local community, and a good friend. She recently presented at Whippersnappers, our local TNG group, and has done a number of presentations throughout the Southeast in particular, and needs our help.

Please take a look at her blog here and offer any help that you can.

08 October 2009

06 October 2009

Crying jag

Jack and I have fought, and as I lay down the phone I can feel my body shaking. My heart is shaking, my soul rocking in fear and agony. I hate hurting him, but I am also angry- this wasn't my fault! I did what I was supposed to!... and I am confused and frightened and I wish that he were here to see my fear and hold me and promise me that it will be all right, and that he loves me. I cannot show him this fear over the phone- it is too vulnerable, too close, and he is not close enough to make it better.

Still shaking, I wander back into the living room. I've almost forgotten that the boi is here, too wrapped in my misery to remember anything else. Turning the corner and seeing him is a shock: he is curled on the couch, looking up at me. The love and sympathy in his eyes when he sees my face crumbles the pitiful emotional barriers I had begun to automatically build, and I go to him before I even realize what I am doing, curling into a ball, pressed against him, and shaking.

A part of me screams, "This isn't the way that it works! You care for him, you do not make yourself vulnerable to him! Stop! Get up! Put on the mask!" But I am trying to let myself feel, trying to let myself trust, and more than that... I do not want to wear the mask with him. I do not want to pretend, do not want to play the, "I'm invulnerable," game. So I curl myself against him and I let myself shake; slow, hot tears falling down my face, across my nose, and soaking the hand he curls beneath me.

"Do you want to talk about it?" he asks softly.
"Not yet," I shake my head.
So he gives me silence, gives me tenderness, and offers me the safety to feel my fear, my hurt, my anger and distress. I am afraid of this- afraid that he will see me so weak and hurting, and that he will not be able to see this frightened woman as his Mistress and will not be able to trust me, depend on me, lean on me again. I am afraid that this will destroy our dynamic.
It makes me want to stop, to draw myself away from him and process this alone, put on the mask and cover up my hurting, but his hands are warm around me and there is no drawing away in his touch, none of the contempt that I fear.

It adds relief to the roil of emotions inside me, and then I am crying harder, my sobbing silent as always and my body shaking against him. I can feel the fear in his hands, the worry for me, but that there is no contempt in that touch eases a small, tight knot inside of me and I sob myself out and curl up against him while he strokes my hair.
Finally, I am sobbed out, and he kisses my forehead.
"Would you like a cup of tea and a cold rag, Ma'am?"
My eyes are swollen and gritty, my smile shaky, but I hope that he understand that right now I love him more than anything else in the world, and that I am incredibly grateful for his beautiful, tender, loving, submissive heart.

01 October 2009

Pitiful PMSing HNT

Preparing to get into the bath to stop my entire lower body from screaming....

About Me

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I am just your ordinary average every day sane psycho supergoddess