Humiliation is the beginning of sanctification. -John Donne

A while back, I tackled this topic for the book, Sex Kitten Presents The BDSM Issue. In writing that essay, Erotic Humiliation is Not an Oxymoron, I took a personal journey, an internal retrospective of sorts, recalling my initial shock upon receiving such a request and my eventual delight (and maybe even a bit of sexual excitement) with this particular form of domination.

I wrote:

The slave brings his desire to be dominated and the Mistress brings her dictionary and thesaurus, because it is her facility with language which authenticates her authority in this empyreal dungeon.

It’s no secret that I deeply believe in the power of words. They are, after all, what saved me so very long ago and far away. When I was too small, the world was too big and too many caretakers were impotently wicked and/or emotionally anemic. Even today, a library is consecrated ground for me–my church, my mosque, my synagogue, my cathedral–my sacred place of transformation.

And yes, at certain times, my dungeon.

Think about sex: the sex you do have and then the sex you think about having. I would bet that, regardless of your particular kink (high heel fetish? spanking? hard fucking? cuckolding? controlled masturbation? cross dressing? romantic sensuality?), the sex you think about having includes a lot of verbiage.

i.e.

• Rub your dripping prick down the length of my stiletto heel. That’s it. Now take the tip, just the tip, and run it around the ankle strap. Slowly, very slowly.
  
• You know you’ve got it coming. Over my knee. NOW! Hmmm. Should I use this ping pong paddle or my hand? Such a tender little ass.
  
• Beg for my fat dick, you little slut. Spread those legs like a dirty little whore and jerk off your clit. Beg for my fat dick, and then I’m going to ram it into you so hard that you you’re going to cry like a bitch in heat.
• I love you, baby, but I need big cocks and lots of them. So get in between my legs and clean up the mess, baby. Marcus and Jerome fucked me sooo hard. Look how swollen my cunt is. Lick it baby. Make it feel better.
  
• Do you like it when I wrap my little hand around this thick man-cock of yours and stroke it like this? Oh, you’re throbbing. What if I rub my pretty little French nail back and forth every-so-lightly across the frenum?
  
• Oooh…your cute little satin panties feel so good between your little sissy stick and my wet pussy. But I think little panty sluts deserve a good fucking. Go get the strap-on, sweet bitch-girl.
  
• I love you so much, darling. Fuck me harder, my beautiful lover. I want your cum deep inside of me, honey. I need it. I need it so bad.
  

See what I mean? (and if you don’t, you might want to schedule an EEG)

Anyway, for those of you who haven’t run off to call your neurologist, can you understand how verbal abasement can up the ante for the submissive man or woman? And for some, perhaps even be a more-intoxicating form of domination all by itself? More powerful than whips and chains? And is particularly apropos when the dungeon is virtual, a creation of the imagination, the meeting of two minds? Two well-developed, very kinky brains?

I also wrote:

This is BDSM without the net, unconditional love on Prozac, Creatine-enhanced tough love.

And I believe it.

Some of the most intense phone domination sessions I’ve participated in have been humiliation fantasies. Meaning that I have almost dived –and perhaps even did a very feminine swan dive– into subspace with the target of my verbal venom on more than one occasion. What Tom Petty calls “free-falling.”

Done correctly (dispensing “tough love” requires a measure of love, of trust, of mutual respect), Erotic Humiliation can turn the known world upside down for both Mistress and Slave–defying physical boundaries, transcending emotional and psychological bastilles.

It is a thing of great beauty and deep mystery.

And it all starts with words. Simple, yet all-powerful words.

Now and forever. Amen.

I had all intentions of putting in a serious amount of time on the kink-O-phone today.   Honestly.   Don’t raise that eyebrow.

Got up at a reasonable (all things considered) time. Jogged five (ok, walked some of it). Took a superbath, washed my hair, brushed my teefies. Donned my business suit (t-shirt nightie and sockies). Made my bed, started the dishwasher. Ingested relatively massive amounts of the Sulawesi. In other words, got all the personal necessities neat and comfortable around the edges.

Put together an I’ve been a bad girl discount email (because I’ve kinda-sorta been MIA going on two weeks now–I had my reasons) to send to the good guys (a demographic that I, of course, define differently than most)–letting them know that if they wanted to strike while the iron was hot (that would be moi), today would be good. So everything was set to go. But then I remembered.

Remembered this piece of crap attempt to rewrite history is on tonight.

Propagada Trailer.

Harvey Keitel is not afraid to spank Disney’s ass.

A liberal perspective. (And I do agree.)

And my own personal Pervert Savant sent me this:

I’ve got an idea for a great movie!

It will be called “The Path to ‘The Path to 911′” hopefully directed by Michael Moore. It will depict how a right-wing cabal of born-again Christians dragooned Tom Keane, a group of Disney television execs, and the ABC broadcasting network to produce a $40,000,000 docudrama (now labeled a “dramatization”) based (sorta, except for the parts that weren’t and that never really happened) on the famous 911 Commission Report and then tried to market the movie to American viewers (and to schoolkids through “Scholastic Magazine”) as “history”.

I think it will make interesting viewing.

My choice for the lead Disney executive would be Peewee Herman.

I’m hopeful that Mel Brooks and Gene Wilder will reprise their dual roles from “The Producers” and play the born-again writer and director.

Like its predecessor, the sequel to “The Path to 911″ could be the greatest work of historical “drama” since “Springtime for Hitler”.

*****

I gotta watch…you do understand, don’t you? You will forgive me?

******

And Democrats? …’cuz we need you to step up to the plate real bad:

I need a hero
I’m holding out for a hero until the end of the night
He’s gotta be strong
And he’s gotta be fast
And he’s gotta be fresh from the fight

I need a hero
I’m holding out for a hero until the morning light
He’s gotta be sure
And it’s gotta be soon
And he’s gotta be larger than life
—Holding out for a Hero

No, you can’t always get what you want
You can’t always get what you want
You can’t always get what you want
But if you try sometime you find
You get what you need
—You Can’t Always Get What You Want

*****

This whole mess just makes me terribly sad. But what do I know? I’m just a poor little orphan girl who tells dirty stories.

By now you should have read Jeremy Edwards’ frisky little story After Tennis. I promised you a little more info on said gentleman, so perk up your cute little ears and have a listen.

Although I only ran into Mr. Edwards (who also goes by Jerotic–don’t you just love it?) recently when reading his story The Girl Who Loved to Pee, evidently he’s been stirring up quite a bit of mischief with his wicked wordiness for a while now. As I told you yesterday, he has a nice little crib of his own, but it seems that Jeremy has what my grandmother refers to as a “gasoline ass.” He just can’t be a good boy and stay at home!

For example, he’s becoming quite the Casanova over at Oysters and Chocolate (which, by the way, just became a free site–so scoot over there now), where high-brow babes go to get their grafenberg tickled by some of the best writers in the biz. You can bet that Jeremy’s Any Day of the Week and Vacation Plans are doing some tickling. Wonder which is the oysters and which is the chocolate. Hmmmm…

He’s also charming the panties off of a few ladies at Tit-Elation with an exquisitely naughty tidbit, Adrienne’s Ironic Lingerie. (The man does have a way with words, doesn’t he?) You can read a juicy little excerpt of this story over at the lingerie blog of A Slip of a Girl who was so intrigued she had him back for an interview. Then I suggest signing up for a membership with Tit-Elation, because membership does have its privileges.

Evidently insatiable, his purple prose can also be found tucked between the linens of the pre-eminent erotic magazine on the Internet, Clean Sheets. Go ahead–slip into something more comfortable; then tuck yourself in with a few of his very naughty bedtime stories: If We Were and The Ass Pajama Lottery.

Whew! I don’t know about you. But I need a cigarette after all of that.

xo

An erotic story by Jeremy Edwards – (c) 2006

Playing tennis with Candice was always hard work–for both of us. We each hit the water bottle a lot during those luxurious summer Sundays on the court. And then sometimes, when the sun began its slow, late-afternoon descent and we were ready to relax the pace a bit, we’d pull a couple of beers out of her cooler.On one such occasion, it became clear at the end of yet another close match that Candice and I were both jiggling for a good piss, as the brews and H20 coursed through us.

“Do you have to pee as badly as I do,” she called to me from across the court. This end of the park was empty except for us, so she was able to shout this fairly personal question without any inhibitions. It sounded sexy, though, to hear my beautiful lover shouting to me in the open air about how she had to take a leak. I’d had the good fortune to observe that Candice embodied a particular kind of erotic beauty on the commode, her soft, intimate regions the source of ashimmering fountain. So for her to mention the need was always enough to turn me on.

“You know it!” I grinned, as we met at the net. I noticed her left hand darting momentarily to the front of her shorts. Her knees were pressed together. She smiled in a way that looked a little kinky.

“Wanna try something?” she asked.

“Sure,” I said, agreeably. I didn’t know what she had in mind, but that question–and that smile–had always led to nice things.

We headed off the court in the direction of the changing rooms, and Candice took my hand. “I thought it might be fun to do a double wetting,” she said softly.

I didn’t get her drift. It had sounded like she’d said “double wedding,” and the two of us had barely discussed marriage. But I was too intrigued–and too eager to take my dick out of my shorts and let the beer flow–to hold things up with a lot of questions.

To my surprise, she led me right past the locker building, into a secluded bit of lawn beyond. A moment later, while we swayed and held ourselves, she surprised me further by sitting me down on the grass, and then seating herself on my lap, with her back to me. Feeling her ass on my fly made me start to get hard, but I was still ready to spill over with pee any second.

Candice jiggled on top of me, and I finally realized what she had in mind. “Okay,” she announced, with a touch of breathless anticipation in her sexy voice. “When I count to 3 we both let go, all right?” She didn’t wait for an answer, but began to count. “1 . . . 2. . .3!”

I heard a lewd hissing from under her ass, and I did my part by relaxing every tensed muscle in my lap. A warm, wet bliss rolled over me as my tennis shorts soaked up Candice’s flood of womanly water and my own bladder full of fluid. Her saturated crotch generated a river that merged with my own spreading wetness, a confluence of mutual release that mingled intimately where her throbbing cunt pressed through our flimsy clothing, urgent against my pumping hose.

Even while we were still wetting, her moans indicated that her enjoyment had crossed way over the line from the basic physical pleasure of urinating into something powerfully sexual. And when we finally, finally finished, we could not peel our soaked shorts and underwear fast enough. I had quickly developed a huge erection, and her piss-glistening pussy was slick and hungry. With our pants at our ankles, she wriggled her ass back down toward my lap until her wet lips kissed the tip of my member.

After an instant of this titillating contact, we screwed our sexes further into place and began a delicious bounce. Her back, warm with perspiration, pressed tightly against my chest, and her ass squirmed against my abdomen. I heard the sounds of pee-kissed flesh squishing to our rhythm. As I fucked her right there on my lap, I reached around to finger her nipples through her tennis shirt, taking care also to tickle her under her arms, which was guaranteed to send Candice into ecstasies. Her climax and mine came rushing through us mere instants later.

Scarcely had the orgasms receded when she hopped off me, squatted mere feet away, and let loose another torrent of pee, this time onto the dry grass. She giggled girlishly while I watched the luscious stream roar out of her. Her bare ass pulsated as it watered the terrain below.

***Jeremy Edwards (AKA Jerotic) hangs his hat (or is that a cap with little horns?) at My Space. Be sure to visit him there and give him a holler. He is a most interesting bloke and I will tell you more about that tomorrow. So make sure you come back!

Now isn’t that the cutest little butt this side of heaven? Aren’t you just dying to know where and how to find the woman is to whom it belongs? If you ask real nice, saying pretty please with cherries on top and promise to be very good boys (at least until you work up the nerve to give her a call–then, bad behavior is the order of the day…very bad behavior), I just might tell you.

Now, stop staring at those humps and pay attention. That gorgeous bootie that you can’t keep your eyes off of belongs to my friend, Lyndee.

AKA Luscious Lyndee

AKA Miss Fuckalicious

Is Fuckalicious Lyndee as cute as those buns you are staring at? Listen for yourself, and then visit the above links to her websites.

Lyndee and I kinda-sorta ran into each other while bee-bopping around the WWW and took an instant liking to each other. With men, I go by the seat of my panties. With women, my belly-feeling. And when I met Lyndee, it was like I’d just eaten a slice (maybe even two slices) of my grandmother’s Peanut Butter pie. She is both that sweet and that decadent. This is a friendship that is growing by the day, and I cherish it.

But what do the naughty boys have to say about our beloved Lyndee? Well, why don’t ya just read for yourself:

*****Speechless. She leaves me speechless.

*****Superb as usual! Lyndee is so hot and very professional. Creative and can get nasty (in a good way) and make you her bitch……gotta love it! She’s playful and NOT scripted….a must call!

*****Great voice and an awesome lady.

*****Amazingly fun, frisky, imaginative, intelligent and highly erotic! WOW!

So I love Lyndee, the guys love Lyndee. I’m betting you will love her too. Are you still here? Don’t you have a call to make?