I’ve written a few times about our community, our lovely little corner of the kinky blogosphere where support, kindness, and comfort are of the utmost importance. Community is a big part of what inspires us to share our intimacies, our innermost thoughts, our most delicious, perverse natures…in other words, our truths.
In the spirit of this community, I was absolutely delighted when Marla from the Collars & Cuddles blog reached out to me to do an interview. I’ve always enjoyed her posts which feature a blend of nuanced sexuality, BDSM insights, and helpful educational pieces. And now I’ve had a chance to do a cross-blog collaboration with her – what a treat!
I hope you enjoy the interview as much as I did…and do yourself a favor and subscribe to Collars & Cuddles while you’re there! 🙂 Thanks again, Marla! 🥰
Casey had spent the better part of the last half hour seated on the floor next to Sir. If she were being completely honest with herself, it was her favorite place to be and had been during the tenure of their few months together. But, in this particular case, she was more than ready to obey his commands.
Before Casey had gotten seated at his feet, Sir had imprisoned her nipples in a vicious pair of clover clamps. Intense. Unrelenting. Sadistic. In other words, they were just like Sir. And they were perfect.
Casey loved to hate the clamps. They bit into her tender buds, never allowing her a moment’s reprieve or even a quick distraction. She was always painfully, acutely aware of them, and consequently, of Sir’s control of her body. And this was even before Sir had rigged up a cord to connect to the chain that spanned Casey’s chest, connecting the clamps. Using this cord, Sir could sit in his chair and tug at will on his lovely submissive’s nipples, providing all the sweet torture that both of them craved.
But the time had come to remove them—Sir didn’t like to leave them on too long—and Casey now stood before him in the posture he’d commanded. “You did so well with your clamps today, little one. You made me so proud. Such gorgeous little whimpers, such beautiful strength in your submission. But it’s time for these to come off. And I’ve got a special treat for you today.”
The impish twinkle in his eye told Casey that whatever “special treat” he had in mind was bound to be part relief and part ordeal for her. Prior experience told her that removing the clamps was, in many cases, the most difficult to endure. Sir didn’t leave her waiting as he deftly removed both clamps at the same time. The aching, searing waves of pleasure and pain that seared through her nipples and radiated through her core sucker-punched her in the gut and nearly dropped her to her knees. Sir grabbed ahold of her hips to steady her as she grappled with the fiercest throbbing of the blood returning to her swollen nipples.
“There’s my good girl…breathe for me…steady yourself…breathe nice and deeply for Sir and he’ll make everything better, hm?”
The promise of relief was a siren’s song Casey couldn’t resist, and she obeyed her Sir. As she always did. His promise was quick in coming.
Sir reached into the glass on the stand beside him and pulled out two ice cubes, one for each hand, and applied them to Casey’s tortured nipples. The sensation was excruciatingly intense and comfortingly welcome art the same time. As her nipples throbbed back to life, he massaged the cubes against them in tight circles. Meltwater trailed down the underside of her breasts and her torso before falling to the cushion below her. She held position as Sir continued his ministrations.
“Feeling good, little one?”
“Mmm…yes, Sir,” she moaned as she met his sharp gaze.
“That’s my good girl,” he whispered. “Now, we’re going to keep going. Spread your legs and stay still for me.”
As she got into position, Casey’s mind rapid-fired through all the possible scenarios of what “keep going” might mean. Her answer soon arrived as Sir grabbed two more ice cubes and positioned one of them against her vagina. “Absolutely still, my good girl. Time to make me proud as I punish and pleasure this little pussy of mine.” Without further preamble, he used two fingers to push the cube inside, seating it deep within her. He repeated this with the second cube, then sat back in his chair to relax and watch the show.
Casey had never played with ice before—not on her nipples, not anywhere—so the evening’s sensations were beginning to overwhelm her. But she focused on Sir’s instructions—Stay still. Make me proud. She held onto his words like an anchor, the only thing to keep her from drifting away and dissociating from the intensity of the experience.
The freezing cubes tucked into her warmth created odd sensations within her, cooling her entire body down while simultaneously making her hyperaware of her sex. In less than ten seconds from when he’d filled her with ice, the cubes began to melt and a steady trickle of water slid down her inner thigh while dewdrops fell from her chilled labia.
“Looks like my girl sprung a leak,” he teased her gently, causing her to giggle and tremble at her own demise. He laughed with her as he trailed his fingers through her cool wetness and licked them. “Remember, absolutely still until the ice is all gone, my good girl.”
“Mmm, yes, Sir.” Casey stopped her giggles and stilled herself as a light wave of cramping washed over her—the cold cubes and her warm body were waging a war, and she didn’t want to end up a casualty. “Permission to ask a question during a session, Sir?”
“Of course, little one, ask away.”
“We’ve never used ice before, Sir. Why now? Why tonight?” The cubes continued to melt down her legs as she met his stare.
“Fair question. So, I’ve been thinking about us lately. A lot. And I think we need to consider taking our relationship to the next level. The cold, hard truth is that I need you in my life. The cold, hard truth is that what we have is perfection itself. The cold, hard truth is that I love you. And I just wanted to make sure I had your full attention when I told you all about the cold, hard truth.”
And, for the rest of the evening and beyond, Casey never again shied away from Sir’s cold, hard truths.
His hand extends to me from the darkness. To pleasure me? To hurt me? To blend the two extremes? I crave His dominance with everything that I am, yet I doubt my ability to remain intact in His presence.
How do I navigate something so powerful yet so terrifying? How do I look myself in the mirror and see anything other than His reflection staring back at me through my own eyes? How do I stand tall in my sense of self when every instinct commands me to kneel before Him?
I know where He’ll lead me…where He’ll drag me, kicking and screaming…where He’ll weave his way into the most private corners of my soul. Am I powerless to stop Him?
Or am I wise enough not to try?
I’ve been noodling on a few sketches/vignettes for some of my protagonists and thought I’d share these with you for thoughts and input! Plus, this gives me a way to purge these ideas, make way for some new ones, and (hopefully) turn a few readers on in the process! 😉 Enjoy!
I’ve been lucky enough in this life to have had some amazing, powerful, transcendental experiences.
I’ve published multiple novels…including one on the way! I’ve ridden a horse in the wee hours of the morning through the streets of the city. I’ve made love on a beach in the Caribbean. I’ve watched the sun rise from the summit of a volcano. I’ve skied through mountains with the pine air caressing my skin. I’ve fallen in love with every fiber of my being and have had my heart broken into millions of pieces—more than once. I’ve savored the sweet nectar of submission as it coursed through my veins.
It occurs to me that each and every one of these experiences involved a risk/reward calculus. And, on occasion, I’ve taken some pretty significant risks—some of which make me shake my head in disbelief when I think about them. I’ve placed myself in a few dangerous-as-hell situations, situations that would give Mr. Elise a twitchy palm just to hear of them. (Please don’t tell him!) 😉
But I’m fortunate enough to still be here to tell the tales and to revel in the woman I was, the woman I am, the woman I’m becoming. The rewards for such risks are self-evident.
And yes, sometimes you risk it all and your reward is pain.
And yes, sometimes that’s the reward you were seeking the whole time.
Throughout my adult life, I’ve always found myself attracted to older men. Sometimes older by a couple of years…and sometimes a couple of decades. While not always true, it’s generally been my experience that older men—especially more dominant men—are in possession of more knowledge, self-control, gravitas, patience, and perspective. And I can’t get enough of these qualities.
Mr. Elise is a bit older than yours truly. In fact, it’s one of the first things that attracted me to him. I was in a frenetic period in my life, and he provided balance, perspective, and care. He gave me the space to forge my own path while equipping me with structure and guidance. The attraction was irresistible.
Of course, it can be easy to over-romanticize our older gentlemen. After all, not every silver fox has a heart of gold. But for what it’s worth, I’d choose my older man again in a heartbeat.
I’ve written elsewhere about the notion of the word “should.” It’s an insidious little word that sneaks its way into conversations all too easily and to great detriment to all.
Are you sure you should do that?
Maybe you should try taking things slower/faster/a different way…
Even though this feels good, I shouldn’t want it, shouldn’t need it, shouldn’t crave it.
We’ve all said it; we’ve all heard it. And it never feels good. “Should” implies judgement of ourselves and others. Why bind ourselves to narrow, externally imposed constructs of what “should” be right, “should” be acceptable, “should” be pleasurable? (Unless, of course, being bound is what you like…) 😉
And specifically, within the context of the BDSM, D/s, and other power exchange communities—provided you’re engaged in safe, sane, consensual practices—there should be no should.
I encourage us all to critically examine* our use of the word “should” and adapt accordingly.
* You know, I really shouldn’t split an infinitive like that. 😉
(Here’s a link to the song I reference in the image above, in case you’d like to have a listen.)
There are few things that bring a submissive to rapt attention faster than these three words. Ahhh, delicious, deviant, decadent attention.
And eye contact is vital, yes, but it’s so much more.
It’s establishing deep focus on the Dominant and placing yourself in their hands. It’s silencing external stimuli and establishing a cocoon of safety and trust within which you explore together. It’s recognizing the fundamental power in your submission and entrusting your body, mind, and soul to the Dominant.
It’s the D/s power exchange distilled into its purest essence with three seemingly innocent words. Although, as powerful as these words and the implied exchange are, I’ve been noticing of late that there is another layer I’d not explored.
We live in a world in which our attention is parceled into seconds-long snippets, with clicks, likes, clips, vids, and other quick hits of social dopamine vying for our limited attention spans. There’s also the focus demanded of us by our careers, families, and friends…by our artistic and extracurricular pursuits…by the increasingly polarized and unsettling news cycle and state of current affairs…and I could go on.
But for the briefest of moments – and for however long he commands it – “eyes on me” is a reminder that you’re in service of a higher purpose, one that demands your full attention.
And I’m hard pressed to find many things sexier than that.
Motivation is a vital factor when it comes to so many aspects of our lives.
Dragging yourself out of bed before dawn to go work out. Filing your taxes. Dealing with the piles of laundry that seemed to have appeared out of nowhere. Buckling down and putting pen to paper on a new book idea. Submitting to the will of another and placing yourself entirely in their hands.
The common denominator here is motivation. And finding the right motivation at the right time for the right person…that’s truly sublime.
In my particular case, motivation comes in the form of little treats. And Mr. Elise understands this implicitly. After spending the better part of the last two weeks hammering out my newest erotica work in progress, I put the final period on my first draft last night.
Puget Sound on the Pacific Coast, 1870 (Albert Bierstadt)
Hi all,
Well, for those of you who are unaccustomed to me sharing anything of consequence on this blog, hold on to your knickers, because yours truly had an awful day—the first I’ve had in as long as I can remember. Things are kind of topsy-turvy on the homefront right now, and I’m having a hard time grappling with it. But now, thanks to some encouragement from a new friend, I’d like to tell you a little more about it. **Warning** This tale involves plenty of tears, a bit of heartache, and more caffeine than I care to admit.
But wait! Before you write this off as a “woe is Jaye” tale and skip over to read some scintillating smut, would it sweeten the deal if I promised you a little smile at the end? C’mon…throw me a bone here! I’m trying to share, dammit! 😉
So, looking at the title for this post, when you think of “Seattle” what images come to mind? The Space Needle? Grunge? Starbucks? Amazon? Grey’s Anatomy? Well, whatever you think of, I can pretty much guarantee you’re thinking of it cast against a gray, gloomy background. Because Seattle, for a solid eight months every year, is a cloudy, wet, rainy place.
Now, picture for me—if you will—the Seattle day I had…and imagine me crying throughout:
5:30am – Walking the dog in the dark. And crying.
6:30am – Checking my social media accounts. And crying.
7:00am – Showering. And crying.
7:30am – Walking to the bus stop in the rain. And crying.
7:45am – Catching the bus, finding a seat (awesome!), listening to some Chris Cornell (Seattle boy, RIP). Still crying.
8:30am – Jumping off the bus downtown and heading toward work in the rain. And crying.
8:45am – Taking a detour to Starbucks (est. Seattle 1971). Crying while surrounded by homeless people.
9:15am – Showing up late to work, hiding in bathroom. Can’t stop crying.
9:30am – Leaving work because I’m essentially useless. Walking down street while crying.
10:00am – Going to Seattle Art Museum to surround myself with pretty things. Not crying quite so much.
12:00pm – Joining my husband for lunch at Nordstrom (Seattle-based department store), realizing that nothing is quite as bad as it seems, drinking coffee #2. Crying stops and a few laughs ensue.
1:30pm – Indulging in some retail therapy, drinking coffee #3. The crying tries to resurface, but I manage to keep it together.
2:00pm – Falling asleep at a coffee shop, embarrassing the living shit out of myself by drooling onto my shoulder. No crying though!
3:30pm – Heading home. The crying hath ceased.
Just as today’s gloom gave way to some gorgeous sunbeams, some rays of hope, happiness, and laughter broke through my sadness and despair. Because even as rough as the most Seattle-esque day can be, there’s nothing that can keep me down for long. And though I’m going through a bit of a rough patch right now (and though a *few* more tears may fall), it’s kind of fun to remind myself that I, too, am human…
…and that there might be a few of you out there who could benefit from a glimpse at that humanity.
Jaye Elise writes... 