Saturday, February 28, 2009
2. I want you to fist me.
3. I want to help turn Laken into a cake--and then watch you eat her out.
4. I want to beat up Nate again. Do you think I can get him to scream into my mouth?
Friday, February 27, 2009
There's a certain scene in a certain movie that everyone talks about in Feederism. Perhaps you've seen it?
This movie squicks me. I first saw it when I was a teeny kid and watching the scene filled me with a horror that I still can't quite describe--Turn it off, turn it off, please please turn it off!
Which, according to some things I've read, is exactly why I'm interested in the things I am now. It's probably in a very general top ten of "When I Realized I Had A Fetish" stories. As one of my feedee acquaintances past explained it to me, What you fear becomes that which you most desire, and so--! One wonders if the makers of Willy Wonka realize how many little children had all their sex synapses fire off at once simply from watching their move. After one showing, hundreds of little inflation fetishists were born!
But the problem with that theory is, the movie still squicks me. It's not that I secretly want it and have deeply repressed it, it's that it doesn't excite me in any way at all. It gives me a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach--or, if I actually force myself to watch it (to prove to myself that I am a normal person and the fact that these images of entirely fantastic expansion shouldn't really bother me) a feeling that something terrible will happen when the tension is finally released. There is a deep part of me that is simply terrified of watching the buildup of pressure that leads to an explosion, and it is this strange quirk of my makeup that will guarantee that if I ever cross paths with a looner, I will hail them as a cousin.
Granted, this peculiar quirk doesn't have much affect on my life. It doesn't inhibit with my everyday functioning, unless you count my media consumption. I didn't even see the second half of Willy Wonka until many years later, when there was a community showing of it that I attended with my friends. I went to the bathroom during the "Blueberry" part, and came back when it was over. I did the same thing during the pig scene in Sprited Away. And that stuffing scene in Cool Hand Luke. And this one bit in Brasil that you will probably watch and feel nothing for at all. It's why I still haven't seen Wall-E.
Oh, yeah, and Akira.
I saw Akira originally because I wanted to watch more anime, and it was recommended to me as a classic. I haven't had much of a desire to watch any anime since.
If I want an explanation for why I feel this way, it's really very simple. I am horrified at losing control over my body to that extent. The possibility of my body's cells going berserk in quite that way is highly unlikely, but nevertheless lurks in the same space as my fear of deep water or airplane crashes. And I feel the same sense of unease when I read about someone who on my fetish forum who has the goal of reaching 500 lbs.
I kind of like my fear. It's how I separate myself from other Feederism fetishists. I imagine myself to be more virtuous in that I draw strict circles around what I'm attracted to, and what I'm not, what I'm willing to do, and what I'm not. In a seemingly limitless fetish, I have limits, and it's this that prevents me from doing harm.
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
All right, a promise is a promise, so here they are: my actual breasts. The beads are real Mardi Gras beads, bought in New Orleans many years ago. As for the purple mark you can see on my left boobie, that's a souvenir from a more recent adventure.
Happy Mardi Gras everyone!
Hey peeps, sorry for the lack of updates yesterday. My home internet will have to be resuscitated, it seems. Hopefully Miss Valentine will make up for it. In the meantime, I'll be in the local coffee shop, storing up pretty curvy girls in case of future outages.
Thursday, February 19, 2009
I'd never been bitten before. Bite my nipples, I'd tell boys, and they'd gently hold my nipple between their teeth. Harder, I'd tell them, and they'd increase the pressure until I could really feel it, and I'd gasp. He'd begin at that point, then keep bearing down until the pressure reached a white hot point, the kind of concentrated pain you'd get from having a hot needle driven into your breast. Sometimes he'd worry the marks with his teeth a little, to spread the pain around.
I found I sometimes had to fight the urge to hit him. I wanted him to do this to me, but when the pain pushed one click to far I'd start to pound him on the shoulder and then remember and hold myself back so I wouldn't hurt him. Ha! I'd thought that after a time everything would get mixed up, and a slap would begin to feel like a warm massage. Instead it was an edgy game where I did my best to open up, take it in, bear more and more. And he kept finding ways to make things hurt I had never realized before, like when he gripped me under the knees to push my legs towards my chest to fuck me. Ten seconds later I realized even such an innocent grip as that could become agony.
Or the skin above my knee, which was hurting like a fresh burn. His teeth were still set firmly.
Stop, I'd beg, oh stop, and he'd let up...a beat or two later. Once I had yanked his hand away when he'd mashed my breast in a fist and twisted. But I wanted to bear more. "I don't have a very high pain tolerance, do I?" I'd asked over my increasingly scarlet breasts.
He looked confused. "You seem to be holding up fine."
His teeth had reached the stage where the pressure was like a white-hot needle.
I leaned my head back, and suddenly found the trick of it. Like in the moments before one of my own self-induced orgasms, I'd clear the front of my mind so as to have no distractions. I'd refuse to focus on the room around me, on how long it was taking, and the pleasure wouldn't jerk to a stop in the middle but would flow unencumbered to a strong and lasting crescendo. I could throw my mind away, refuse to acknowledge my nerves' insistence that they were at their limit, and hold it...and hold it...
That was the longest one. I felt the beat pass when I'd usually beg him to stop, blocked out the peak, and allowed another to pass. Then another, and then he let go of his own accord. I sighed with triumphant relief, just before he bit down again, just as hard.
And in the exact same place.
"Fuck YOU!" I exploded, and hit him on the shoulder.
Monday, February 16, 2009
Some weeks ago, Essin' Em wanted to know if someone would buy her (new in box) dildo for the amazing price of $10. Goofy with two screwdrivers and wanting to help a sex blogger in need, I grandly DM'd her that I would adopt the rabbit, exchanged addresses via email, and woke up the next morning to wonder what the heck had come over me.
Because, you see, Feederism people don't use sex toys. Unless you count Twinkies, but I can assure we don't stick them anywhere but in the most usual place. We're not even into lingerie, really. For us, the best accoutrement is a birthday suit, where you can see all the rolls unencumbered. All of the fiction I have read is so overjoyed at the unveiling and subsequent ravishing of all that soft flesh that there isn't room for any extra stuff. Except for junk food, we're entirely immune to the commercialization of sex. We'd make Bitchy Jones proud.
But there's also my own prejudices to contend with. I have a weird relationship with the penis--or, more precisely, sticking anything in my vagina.
There, I've said it. And I feel very unoriginal, because every woman who ever thought her vagina was "broken" ends up on the internet at one point or another and tries to cure it with large amounts of casual kinky sex. (By the way, this method totally works.) But, even when it has already been written about around a million times, it annoys me deeply that, as much as I think about sex and erotica and two boys making out, even now I'm not totally sure why I get off.
Because, unlike many women on the internet, I CAN get off. I do it about five times a week, and lately I have been able to come harder than I ever have before. I even have a surefire way of doing it: I put a pillow, wrapped in a towel, between my legs, hump it, then shut my eyes and think of pretty boys being forced to eat gallons of ice cream.
Oh, yeah, and it helps if I suck my stomach in and out too, while I'm doing it.
Y'all do that too, right?
It is maybe the least photogenic way of getting off ever conceived. To that end, I feel odd about letting someone else see me do it, and in fact only two people have ever seen me cum: The Colt, who wanted to know what the pillow was for, and Edward, who improvised lines of Feederism fiction until reading them and watching him and squeezing my thighs together made me cum so hard I found myself staring at the ceiling, wondering what he'd say about the fact that I hadn't even taken my panties off.
A part of me thinks it's weird why anyone would want to shove a buzzing piece of hard plastic up inside themselves. Sometimes, I've wondered how anyone manages to get anything inside themselves. The couple times I have put my fingers in there, I've met with resistance, and I've always been afraid I might hurt something. Same with the last few dicks I've had in there: no matter what we did beforehand, no matter how eager I was at the time, there's usually a single thread of pain, which, once pushed through, goes away. But it is never replaced by pleasure...
Gah, I thought, it's no good taking this all apart in some Freudian way. Let's just get over these prejudices, be an adult, buy the dildo, and experiment. (And anyway, I didn't want to go back on a promise of payment, no wonder how I felt about it afterwards.) So I dropped a money order in the mail, and waited.
And waited. See, the payment had to get to Colorado first. And then the toy had to come all the way back here. And then, I dunno, maybe it was detained by the postal service, because I had time to go to NYC and come back, and I still hadn't gotten it. By then some things had happened--mainly, I had been in a room full of eager hands and cocks that were attached to people who knew how to use them.
"JESUS!" I'd screamed up at the ceiling, while the boy between my legs smirked as he proved that the G-Spot does in fact exist. "CHRIST!"
By now everyone else in the room was giggling. "Was it good for you?" asked someone.
See? Classic story: girl goes to big city, girl gets off, girl lives happily ever after. After having five fingers inside of me I found myself wondering what else I could stick inside there. (Cucumbers? Baby hippos?) I was armed and dangerous. I had a roadmap. From now on I was going to be able to tell every boy I ever bedded exactly where to stick what to make me get off!
And then I couldn't find it again.
I had everything, I thought. Water based lube. A sexy video to watch. And of course my own hot mental video of the first time it had happened. When I put two fingers in, I felt lots of wet flesh, but all of it was uniformly smooth. There was an area that felt like a bump, but wasn't that too close to the opening? It had felt like he was halfway to my navel. And pressing on it didn't make me feel like I had to pee, or scream...
To every boy I've ever been with who didn't find my G-spot, I apologize. I can't even find my own. All this fumbling around had decidely broken the mood, and my vagina was going from wide open to discomfort at having one finger shoved up in there, let alone two. I sighed, rolled over, and ground one out the usual way.
Two days later the rabbit arrived.
- ▼ February (8)