photo courtesy of Lila

Welcome to e[lust] - Your source for sexual intelligence and inspirations of lust from the smartest & sexiest bloggers! Whether you’re looking for hot steamy smut, thought-provoking opinions or expert information, you’re going to find it here. Want to be included in e[lust] #14? Start with the rules, check out the schedule in the site’s sidebar and subscribe to the RSS feed for updates!

~ This Week’s Top Three Posts ~

Answers with an Agenda 1- Fisting – Once you’ve gotten started using two fingers for a bit, then it is time to build until four fingers are sliding in and out of the person, and you are on your way.

Gagged – I think it’s got to be a combination… fingers sliding into your cunt, a merciless tease of your clit, and yes, it’s going to have to be, lining my cock up with your ass.

Mine – I feel you stir beneath me as I create a rhythm, your breathing changing growing more shallow as you slip from sleep into arousal. My eyes lift to yours as you smile and try to move your arms and then freeze.

~ e[lust] Editress ~

Puppet Master – When I was right next to them and they still did not notice, I put my lips to his ear (loud music, you know) and whispered “Touch her boobs, I bet she’d like that” and I backed up a foot.

~ Featured Post (Lilly’s Pick) ~

Shaping Some Limits - “If you ever did that to me, I promise you would never see me again”.Those words were spoken to me this past weekend by my pet during one of our overnight dates. The subject was face slapping.

See also: Pleasurists #77 for all your sex toy review needs.

All blogs that have a submission in this edition must re-post this digest from tip-to-toe on their blogs within 7 days. Re-posting the photo is optional and the use of the “read more…” tag is allowable after this point. Thank you, and enjoy!

Kink & Fetish

12 Licks of the Tawse
A Canvas for Pain
Best Friends
Fetish: What’s Yours?
Needles and Cock Choking
One Couple’s Journey into Kink, part 2
Pieces of Skin and Bone
Please hurt me unbearably, you fucking fucker!
Ssssh…
The Taskmaster’s Whip

Thoughts & Advice on Sex & Relationships

A (Short) Ode to Uncut Cocks
Compersive Vanillas?
How Fear can Lead to Understanding and Trust
I am not a rapist…
Mother’s Day Gift
On threesomes
On Friendship
Playing Nice On The Swingset
Tyler and Holly Give Swing Clubs Another Chance
The Virgin in the Family/Do Not Enter
third person
Whacking For America

Erotic Writing

26 minutes
A Request For Help
Are you willing, Are You?
A Squirting Experience
All Dressed Up – The Party ….part 2
Beginning
Book Orgasm
Dhanurasana
Flesh for Fantasy
Filled
Getting Lost in the Forest
Guest Post: Truck
Go Habs Go Domme Style
hotel window
How Do I Find You Sexy?
I’ll Be Waiting
Jim and Lisa
Keeping It In The Family
Mind the Gap
My Sluttiest Moment
My First Blowjob
Me, Myself & My Clit
Not Tonight Dear, I’ve Got A Headache (Part 2)
Pure, Unadulterated Desire
Predatory
rhythm
Something Different
slumber interruptis
therapy session #1
Wanton Wednesday- Fuck-toy
Wednesday Night Blues

Sex News, Interviews, Politics & Humor

A Wolf in Sheep’s Clothing
Eden Fantasys Newbie Help Guide
What the fuck, EdenFantasys?
Workshops and More at the ALCC

We’re continuing to be your guide in sex, dating, culture, kink, playing hard & staying safe. Remember, at Mistress Arabella’s Bombshells & Rockstars, we do all the dirty work, so you can have all the fun!

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Blissfully,
Mistress Arabella

She is tied, spread-eagle on the bed. Her pussy lips swollen with arousal and parted just so. Her perfect breasts proudly displaying a pair of clovers. Her nipples white with the tension of the clips, the strain, the pressure, the pain. Her breathing seems to be in sync with mine, and when mine quickens, hers follows.

I like to watch her while I’m sucking you off. Like to know that she’s watching me. That she’s watching us.

You pull out of my mouth, and nod at me when I look up at you, giving me permission to go to her. I giggle as my juices drip down my leg. Drenched. For you. I grab a fistful of her hair and kiss her forcefully, quickly, harshly. She moans in response, but knows better than to pull away. I keep hold of her hair, and use my free hand to rip the clover off her right breast, pulling it further and further away from her body until it makes that delightful click and frees itself from her skin. Her moans escalate; they sound like music. Her screams, nectar. I repeat on the left side and her green eyes are big and wide with fear. She knows now what it feels like. And she’s dreading it. Her screams are sweeter to my pussy this second time around, and to hers too.

I rub gentle circles around her clit, and let my fingers dance in the juices that are flowing from her little hole. She’s hungry for us, babe. Two fingers inside her cunt, fucking her slowly, driving her insane, and in an instant I have her right nipple clipped again. Another clover. Though this time there are three. Two for her nipples. One for her engorged clit. But I am methodical. Painfully so. Moving ever so slowly. Enjoying the feel of her tight cunt as it contracts against my fingers, feeling the ripples of her insides and her wetness. Pulling my fingers out to smear some of her juices across her cheek. Flicking her right nipple and clipping her left on the way down. Tracing an invisible treasure map. Lingering on her inner thighs. Twirling figure-eights.

Looking up at her, catching her eyes, making sure that she sees me. You come over and shove your hard-on into her slut mouth. She takes you. Completely. She has no choice. I wait for her to start gagging, and then I seize the opportunity, letting the third clover bite into her juicy clit. She winces. Muffled moans. Your cock gags her nicely. I’m mesmerized. Watching your cock go in and out of her mouth. Watching your perfect cock surrounded by her lips. Watching the rhythm. The way that you grab her every so often, or slap her across the face.

My tongue finds its way to her cunt. And I hold her hips down as I eat her. As I lap at her juices. As I lick up and down her slit. I tease her clipped clit, sending shivers through her. You mustn’t cum, darling, I say. Don’t forget your manners. She struggles visibly at that, as if the mere mention of release sends fireworks shooting off inside of her. But it is no matter. Her body is not her own. She belongs to us. And she knows it. I tell her that she can cool off, and at the risk of being cliche, shove four ice cubes in her cunt. I know that she’ll melt them. For fun, I add one to her dirty ass. She could use the cleansing.

You move away from her mouth, and we switch places. She doesn’t deserve your cum. It is too precious a gift. She gets my pee instead. It is warm, and it trickles into her mouth, down her throat. I grab her chin, force her mouth closed. Hold her nose. She swallows. All of it.

At your direction, I sit on her face. My drenching pussy her new gag, her task, her focus. When she’s not performing adequately, I grab the chain attached to the clips. Rattle it. Pull on it. Till she improves.

You take her tight hole. Fucking her for all she’s worth. Melting the last of the ice.

Before you cum, you call me over, and in an instant I am there, mouth open wide, tongue sticking out, waiting for my meal. Ready to drink you…

Do we write and rewrite the story of our past just as we are constantly writing and rewriting the story of our present, our future?

Is it possible to set ourselves aside and become another person for the sake of a relationship? Is that sustainable? And how does it work for seduction purposes?

Can any one of us become anyone’s “someone” ?

Where are the lines between truth and fiction? Imagined reality and rememberance of reality? What is the role of memory and forgetting?

Can martians be good lovers? Share intimacy?

Apparently, no woman is allowed to be an amazing lover without having a troubled past. Furthermore, she is not allowed to be any good at begging or kneeling or pleasing her love, especially if he may be a man,  and doubly so if he happens to be older than she.

That is what I learned in the beginning of my relationship with a Dominant/Master/Trainer. Let’s call him 2.0.

Such attributes in a woman (especially a young twenty-something woman) must point to some horrendous abuse in her past, he explained. Otherwise, from where did she get the experience?The highly infectious desire? The willingness? The ache, the burn for submission?

“What’s your number?” he used to ask me. And by that he meant, what is the percentage of your feeling that you are making all these stories up just to please me, to sate a near-stranger? Thelower your number, the more you believe that the memories you are recovering are true. The more you believe that they are yours. The more you stand behind them and certify their validity.

Was it all an elaborate game of brainwashing? And on whose side? (Both of ours, perhaps?) And isn’t all seduction subtle manipulation anyways?

We want to know our lovers. It could be argued that more than that, however, we want to create our lovers. We want to make and remake them to fit the specifications of our fantasies, our neuroses, our compulsions, our desires, our dreams.

2.0 had me watch Hitchcock’s Vertigo, paying special attention to the way that the main character molded a random woman that he met to become the living incarnation of his dead wife.

Maybe I was the convenient pawn to be molded, to be remade.

Is it any coincidence that all of his slaves happen to be victims of terrible abuse? Surviving shock and trauma in their childhoods far worse than the stories that make the news? And a concentration of hurt, wounded, traumatized women all in one area… How does he find them all? Or is he playing a role in fashioning their identities?

Yes, it may be true that it is easier to control a woman who has been abused in her past. She is wounded, weak, some go so far as to use the word “broken” in description. But what of thewoman that was not abused or wounded, lived her whole life without that stigma, and then meets a man who suddenly implants such an idea into her head? She becomes vulnerable only to him. She can’t run to her family. He effectively disables her support structure, naming them as themalignant tumor from which evil has spread.

“The reason you have these sexual desires,” he might say, “is because of the things they did to you when you were young. Terrible, terrible things.”

And you start to question your memories, and your lack of memories. Remembering and forgetting become all-important. He insists that you’re running away from yourself and from intimacy when you don’t remember, and in the echo of Pavlov, he “rewards” you (well) when you remember along the lines that further his purpose, serve his case. You fall deeper and deeper inlove with this man, this stranger, this Dominant.

Suddenly he is not just a lover in the distance, but therapist, teacher, healer. And he is the only one who has the magic salve. The only one who understands what happened to you. The only one who will listen to you. The only one who can heal you. The only one who knows where the entrance to the cave is. (Perhaps you are playing right into his hand. Perhaps that has been his plan all along.)

And as you are questioning your own memories, you question his motives. He is quick to dismiss your doubt and continue programming you. “Outsiders often tell my girls that this seems like a cult.”

“Good,” I tell my girls in response. “It should.”

And is it? And do the ”true” stories that you share have more behind them than undeniable truth? And do they have a purpose beyond creating more fear, more instability in us? Furthering thevictim-mentality that brings prey closer to your doorstep.

2.0 teaches you mantras. Infuses them into you like breath. “You’ll hurt me, but you’ll never hurt my heart.” / “You’re mountains and sun. You never turn away from a girl. You’ll never turn away from me.” / “I need. I need. I need. I need You. I can’t live without You. I need You to teach me how to live, how to breathe, please.”

To every lingering doubt of yours, he has a response. To every question, an answer. It is all formulaic on his end, perfectly scripted. He gloats about his consistency and assures you that consistency is a marker of beliefworthiness. “You ache to be beliefworthy to yourself,” he tells you. And with a single statement he has dealt another deep blow to your self-trust, effectively disabling the alarms that are going off inside of you, covering the red flags, hiding the warning lights and muting the sirens (at least temporarily, until the effect wears off– at which point he is ready, and waiting, anticipating your every move (external and internal, conscious and subconscious). “You ache to be beliefworthy to yourself,” he says. The repetition echoes inside of you, and the effect is more solid this time. Your response more thorough, your mind falling into step more quickly than the time before.

And it goes on like this. One night he tells you to google “Stockholm Syndrome.” You do and you tell him what you’ve found. He proceeds to explain that the reason you love your family so much and have been close to them for all of these years is because they were your abusers, and you became close as a way to cope. A neurosis. “A sane response to an insane situation,” he says. “It happened, but it’s not your fault. Anyone would have broken to THAT. Anyone  would have done just what you did to survive. It was so smart. You were such a smart little girl.”

The problems begin when he falls for you harder than he anticipated. You capture him. You seduce him. And he starts slipping. Your eyes are open, and you begin to see his game. You begin to see through him. The illusion is shattered. It doesn’t crumble instantly, but takes weeks to slowly erode (because the brainwashing was so thorough, so penetrating). He is hopelessly inlove with you. He wants to leave the old ways behind, which he must do if he is to share real intimacy with you.

Your mere presence threatens his whole adult-identity, all of the lies that his life is built upon, that his other girlfriends/slaves/lovers subscribe to. You threaten to destroy his reality or break his heart. He can’t have you and his old games, and he knows it. The tension builds.

(No need to watch your favorite soap on tv anymore. You get it all live.)

NOTE: Yes, this happened to me. Yes, it’s a true story. Yes, I’m lucky to have escaped with my sanity, and my life. Yes, I know many other girls who are still trapped in that hell with that abusive prick.

If you, or someone you know is in a similar situation, please seek help. I can offer resources. Message me privately, anonymously at MistressArabella AT live DOT com and I will do my very best to get resources to you and/or your loved ones. Relationship abuse is not a joke; it’s not a game. It damages lives, and it takes lives.

The ones that give you an incredible high that rivals only subspace or domspace. The ones that propel you flying past subspace or domspace. The songs that get you there time and again. The songs that get you off. The songs that satisfy you aurally, and then some. Yes, those songs.

What are they? I want to know. What’s your music kink? What gets you off, hard, every time?!

List ‘em here. Sexy songs. Sensual songs. Songs that make you do a happy dance. Songs that make you come. Songs that open your heart. Songs that uplift your spirit. Songs that unchain your soul. Fuck-me songs. Yes, it-was-that-good songs. Songs that make you feel on top of the world. Songs that transform a rainy day into a bright, sunny one. Addictive songs. Songs that give you a high.

What’s your music kink?

My nipples perk up immediately, hardening into delicious pebbles as your fingers lightly brush across their sensitive tips. A wicked smile comes to your lips and I yearn to taste it upon your lips.

Your movements are slow and deliberate, and I know I must be patient if I am to be granted release at any point in the evening. You take your time and continue to teach me how to come present and enjoy both that which is happening and that which will come to pass with the utmost fullness.

My cunt is dripping wetness out of my silken folds and onto my inner thighs. My hips want to buck, but I know I must be a good girl and that the time for motion will come after the time for stillness.

There is an exquisite magic in the air, and our exchange feels as a sacred ritual. You have all of me—body, mind and soul—already, and things are just beginning.

You grasp my left breast firmly in your hand, and a moan escapes my lips. There is no hesitation in your touch. You release my breast from your grip only to bind rope tightly around, engorging it with blood.

You watch me, tightening the rope until you see the shimmering of pain across my face. I squeeze my eyes shut and turn my head, squirming in my body, both relishing and cursing the first moments. They are always the most difficult for me because I fight so hard against the sensations and I find it difficult to keep eye contact as my body surrenders.

I fall deeper still into your care and under the intoxicating spell of pain and pleasure, despite my attempt to pull away. You are quick to grab my chin and turn my face back to center. “Open your eyes, girl,” you say. “You will have time enough to journey later.”

My eyes flash open in an instant. I know better than to ignore your commands when I can help it. I meet your gaze and the pulsing in my cunt turns into a stronger throbbing. My hips jump as you flick my clit with your fingers, adding an extra jolt of electricity to my circuit.

“That’s it, girl. Trust this. Trust yourself. Trust me.” You tighten the ropes till I cannot help but gasp. With that, you make one final tug urging the ropes tighter still before tying off the knot. You slice the rope with your blade, and rest it on my chest a moment.

The air is filled with heat. And my breathing quickens. It is not long before my right breast is similarly bound. Both turn from pink to red to a deep red purple. They don’t need any extra coaxing, but you trace ice cubes around my areolas before running them over my rock hard nipples. I moan and giggle, and try to slither away even though there is nowhere to go.

“You’re a squirmy one tonight, are you?”

“Yes, Sir,” I say.

Your words are a reminder to keep my eyes open and I catch yours just as you say, “I suppose we’ll need to fix that then, won’t we?”

All the while you have been dancing a pair of clover clamps through your fingers. My breasts are aching already, and I am fearful enough of those damn clamps sans rope. You sense my fear, and run your fingers through my hair to soothe me.

“I’m always careful with you, love,” you say, and I recognize the words as my own and nod.

You thrust the chain of the clamps in front of my lips and I kiss automatically, showing my respect for you and the tools you choose. Twenty seconds later and both nipples are forcibly in the grip of the metal clamps. I am grateful for the soft rubber pads inside the clovers, but they have a deep bite nonetheless.

Before I’m aware what it is that I’m doing, I’ve picked up the chain that was cold against my skin in a feeble attempt to lessen the pressure on my poor swollen breasts.

“Does my toy want something?”

I look up doe-eyed, realizing that I’ve been caught meddling where my fingers didn’t belong.

“Oh, it’s quite alright if you want to put the chain in your mouth. Go right ahead.”

You smile. I hesitate.

“Do it. Now, girl.”

And I taste the metallic chain on my tongue, holding it fast with my teeth through the added ripples of pain. I grimace. Then I cry out, and incoherent syllables tumble from my busy mouth.

“If you are so eager to speak, love, we’ll have to get that chain out of the way.”

You bend over me, and place a soft kiss upon my lips. “Let’s give you a pretty little necklace, shall we?”

And with that, you seize the chain and slip it over my head. My nipples feel as if they’re being ripped from my body. I moan and kick and scream.

“I can’t…” I whimper.

You slap me swiftly across the cheek. “Don’t give me that, girl. You can and will take anything and everything I choose to give you. Nod if you understand, and say thank you like a good girl.”

The nodding yanks on the clamps, of course, and as I say my first thank you of the evening, two lone tears fall from my eye. You kiss them away, and brush my hair out of my face.

“You are safe in my embrace, darling. And I will not let any harm come to you. Remember that.”

I shiver and you nudge my legs apart and utter a simple, “Up.”

I cringe at the idea, but lift them. You help them skyward and fasten my ankles with rope, above and behind me, to the headboard of the four poster bed, taking care to make sure that they are spread as wide as they will go and then some.

My hands are confused, and you know how much I loathe loose ends where bondage is involved. I push them out before you, pleading with my eyes.

You laugh. “I didn’t forget, love. Up above your head now.”

This time it doesn’t even matter that my breasts shake and the clovers bite deeper—I adore the surrender that comes when you take my hands away. I squirm and struggle a bit nonetheless, and you are firm with me. You cross my wrists and bind them tightly together and then to the headboard.

“Such a pretty toy,” you say, adding a large blue ball gag to my adornments.

My juices are forming a sizable puddle of wetness on the sheets, and I can do nothing about it. I am completely exposed and you smile at your handiwork, taking a moment to run your fingers along all the rope before caressing my flesh.

“What shall I do with you now, love? Shall we play?” You tease, for you are already three steps ahead.

I feel a cool finger at my ass, and I bear down accepting the gentle loosening and the lube. It is always a gift—and I try to do my best to welcome it as such.

“That’s a good girl.”

You withdraw your finger after a few moments and I feel something larger pushing up against me.

“Open,” you say, and with that you push the plug inward until it passes my sphincter and I tighten instinctively around the base of it.

So much is burning. The pain is all beginning to swirl together. I scan my body, as you taught me, running my awareness over every square inch of my flesh from head-to-toe, to stay present with all that is happening and to differentiate all that I am feeling. As I get to my ass, I realize how awfully large the plug feels inside of me.

“Count to ten, girl,” you say.

I start counting slowly, and the numbers come out muffled but distinct through the gag. With each, you squeeze a bulb, adding air to the plug inside of me. You kiss my belly and trail nibbles and kisses along my thighs until the counting (and inflation) is done. I feel as if I am being torn open, and take care to breathe as deeply as I can through my nose.

“I think you’ve earned a treat, dear. But you are not to cum. Not yet.”

My eyes go wide as I see the Magic Wand in your hand. You turn it to high with a simple flick of the switch and position it right over my clit.
I’m tempted to scream “I can’t…” but I settle for moans. My hips are moving (though awkwardly because of the way you have me positioned and restrained). I can’t tell if I am moving toward the vibrations or away. I want both at once.

You grab my chin in your other hand. “Look at me. Do you wish to cum, girl?”

I nod eagerly. You pull your hand away.

“Beg, then.”

And a cascade of sing-song noises flow out of me from behind the ball gag. I am getting covered with drool. It glistens in the candlelight.

“You may cum on the count of five, girl. Not a second sooner,” you say.
With that, you begin counting. “One… Two… Three… Four… Five. Cum for me, girl. Give everything.”

At that very moment, you take the clover off my right tit, and then my left. The blinding pain fuels the fire of my orgasm all the more and I soar, moaning, screaming and crying all at once.

You pull the wand away and take my burning, crushed nipples into your mouth, sucking the life back into them, encouraging blood flow and soothing the pain.

Out of nowhere, you smack my ass and I jump to attention.

“Shall we continue, girl?”

I once read an article on an airplane… actually, I believe it was an advice-column in Psychology Today about “emotional cheating” and this woman was freaking out because she had a close guy-friend at work and they shared a deep emotional bond and would talk about things that she didn’t necessarily discuss with her fiancée.

The psychologist who was giving the advice reprimanded her harshly for meeting up with this friend and enjoying what sounded to me as a healthy friendship with deep waters of meaningful connection. The advice-giver called it emotional cheating, and said that it was unhealthy to have connections like that to anyone but one’s primary partner, that to do so is akin to cheating on a monogamous partner with another physical relationship.

She demanded that the woman cut off the relationship with her close friend from work, immediately discontinue sharing any feelings with anyone other than her fiancée and/or break off the engagement because she clearly “wasn’t ready for that kind of commitment.”

Blech. I had the strongest negative reaction to that article (and still do when I recount it). I had never heard the term “emotional cheating” before, and while I can see where the psychologist was coming from, I think it’s utter rubbish.

Humans need connection to live, to be healthy, to survive, to thrive. We need emotional connection just as much as we need a roof over our heads, food to eat, and water to drink.

We have physical needs, yes, but I might even go as far as saying that the emotional needs take priority. And for me, most often, the physical needs are linked to the emotional; I cannot separate them. I trainwreck when I try. (Another reason why I don’t do so well with public play unless I am partnered at the time, or with a protector, or feeling extremely safe otherwise, even though I like the glitz and glamour of it.)

I grew up in a house of conflict, in a family where my parents were constantly screaming at each other, hitting each other, punching through doors and walls, crying and yelling and shouting and arguing. They separated when I was seven. And a lot of my worldview has been formed around those formative years of my childhood. When I look around at people that I know and consider to be in successful intimate relationships, they are not getting all of their emotional needs met by that one person, by his/her primary (or monogamous) partner.

I don’t care if it’s a date, a play-partner in a BDSM context, a courtship, an engagement, a handfast, a marriage, a relationship, a physical relationship, an emotional relationship, a friendship, a friendship with physical benefits, a friendship with emotional benefits… I believe that people need more than one emotional connection in their lives to be healthy and balanced. And I believe that it is oftentimes the path that is healthiest for any given relationship, no matter what form it takes, or what labels are used to describe the interaction of intimacy.

To me, it is not only unrealistic to expect a single partner or friend to meet all of my emotional needs; it is foolish. It is emotional-suicide. It is turning off the wellspring of light inside of me. It is drowning myself with my own intensity, and usually drowning my (primary) relationship, too, sucking the light away from both, suffocating myself and my Other until we combust and cannot continue to be together. (That was a mouthful, wasn’t it? *giggles* That’s just the tip of the iceberg, but that’s my stance on emotional monogamy, anyway.)

As far as the physical side of things goes, I mentioned earlier that I have very very mixed feelings about polygamy and poly relationships in general. I am much more comfortable with labeling myself as non-monogamous than I am with labeling myself as poly, and think I am much more comfortable having a series of parallel relationships (a certain style of swinging, for sure) that may or may not intersect physically and emotionally than I am in having one big closed poly free-for-all with seven other women and one man, for example.

(Yes, I did experience that type of relationship framework. Yes, it was a trainwreck (for me). And a nightmare. And there was too much emotional-abuse involved for me to even have my head screwed on straight. My first full day living with all of them I blacked out, fainted, lost consciousness for the first time in my life. Think my body was trying to tell me something?)

On some days, even, I just want to settle into a comfy physically monogamous relationship, and just branch-out to get my emotional needs sated.

But enough about me; your turn! Tell me about YOU. Introduce yourself. Catch me up. Say hi. I’d love to meet you in this hyper-digitized, globalized, yet nonetheless close-knit community of sexual creatures.

Blissfully Yours,
Mistress Arabella

courtesy of RAINN.org

Spread Awareness. Help yourself. Help Others. Have fun, but above all, be SAFE.