spreading the legs

Opening your legs is one of the most vulnerable things a woman can do. It gives access to areas of her body where she’s most sensitive, most vulnerable. Done right, the simple act of getting those legs open for the first time can be a huge turn on in and of itself.

The most basic is opening my legs myself, freely given, without any prompting other than maybe fingers wandering down my belly. For me, if the man is watching me while I do it, the turn on factor goes from a 1 to a 3 (scale of 1 to 10).

Hmm, exhibitionist, who me?

Being told to open my legs for a man, while he watches, turns up the wow factor considerably. Bumps it up to a 5 or 6. Bonus points for being given specific instructions — slowly, or with your knees bent, or something else that exposes me to his gaze.

Little subbie girls love orders. This subbie girl in particular, especially if it’s said all firm and in-controlly. [shiver]

But having my legs forced open is the most arousing of all – particularly if I can struggle a little in the process. Or struggle a lot, for that matter. This boosts the pleasure and arousal factor up to at least an 8 or more.

However, force is definitely what you’d call an advanced move. Force me too early, or when I’m not in the mood, or when I’m not aroused enough, and obviously the reaction we all hope for just doesn’t happen. Luckily, my man is one hell of a mind reader most days and seems to time his force just perfectly. He doesn’t hate when I struggle against him; quite the opposite, it’s a powerful turn on for both of us. Him, because he has something to work against – and me, because I can satisfy all that primal “good girl” stuff with a good struggle, and still give in and have mindshattering sex because I’ve been “forced”.

You know, I used to struggle with those concepts a lot. Feeling that perhaps I was strange, or in need of serious therapy, because I had these urges – both to be a “good girl”, and to be forced to overcome it. But in the last few years I’ve grown much more comfortable with my psyche and my sex drives (not that I was ever terribly un-comfortable, if you know what I mean). I don’t feel weird about it any longer.

[shrugs] It’s part of my makeup, whether I like it or not. It excites me, and my partner, very powerfully. So rather than stress about it, we choose to not just live with it but embrace it and use it to drive each other even higher.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to go spread my legs again. Wanna watch? 😉

just when you never thought it would happen

I’m sure the only computers still checking this web site for updates are manned by ‘bots; however, that’s OK. This was always more a place for me to think out loud and formulate my desires, dreams and opinions “out loud”, so to speak – so it’s just fine that there are more echoes in this “out loud” place than there used to be. 🙂

One of my most basic, but most fundamental sexual fantasies has always been denial. Not real denial, likely – the kind where you go days and weeks – but the kind where you really really want to come, so much so that you just feel like grabbing whatever’s handy and rubbing it against yourself over and over until you come, and at this point you really don’t even care if it’s a boy or a toy or a blanket or a blender or…

You get the idea.

Anyway, the fantasy has always been to get to this point, to more importantly for my little subbie desires to be brought to this point, and then be held at that edge, to be told “No”, to essentially be tormented and frustrated and aroused long past the point where I would normally have my orgasm, until I’m finally allowed to come.

As an adjunct to this fantasy, there’s a fantastic passage in one of my favorite Aran Ashe books (The Dungeons of Lidir) where the poor pretty slave is tied and spread on a table, and her “torturer” uses a pot of jelly to rub her clit over and over again, stopping to re-apply the jelly every so often, for what seems like hours. She’s not allowed to come with fingers, though, and is stopped every time she gets close. He wants her to learn how to come while being smacked, instead.

Good God I can’t tell you how many times I’ve gotten off to that passage. Yu-um.

Anyways. So this weekend. Out comes the deliciously wonderful soft black rope. He ties me up, so embarassing – wrists to the footboard. and knees to the headboard, spreading me wide open to his eyes. And his fingers. And that naughty soft little brush I bought for him that I never, ever should have bought because DAMN.

And he begins. It’s not long before I lose all track of time and all I want in the whole wide world is for him to touch me, dammit, really touch me not with that damned teasing brush that makes me want to climb out of my skin. His fingers, wonderful naughty talented dammit fingers, start teasing my clit.

I should have known when he got out the lube that he intended for it to last a while, but I’m deeply stupid when aroused and basically just go off into VikkiSlutLand where I’ll agree to anything and say anything as long as the pleasure continues.

On and on the torment went. It didn’t take him long until he found the perfect touch. The one that, given enough lube and patience, can keep me at the edge for so long I’d like to tear at something. Hence, the wonderful soft black rope which prevents me from doing so.

But usually, he takes pity on me and after drawing it out for a short while, he lets me come.

Not today. He gets me absolutely crazy – the point at which he usually relents – and then asks me do I want to come, and you can imagine by now which word I’m screaming, because it’s been forever with his fingers just lightly stroking my clit and slutland is here in all its glory.

To which he then responds with “Well, you’re not allowed to.”

And continues to stroke me with just-that-enough-ness to keep me going but not let me tip over. Taking care to stop periodically and re-apply lube.

Somewhere in all my whimpering and moaning and general nonsense (if you think I retained speech ability at this point you’re SO mistaken) I begin to realize that this is it – my fantasy, the thing I’ve always wanted to have happen but never found a man willing to stand up to my begging or capable of holding me on the edge (to have both skills together in one lover is – well all I can say is oh good god).

At which point I think my arousal, uh, triples.

Finally, at what seemed like two hours later but was probably only ten or fifteen minutes, he let me come, rubbing and squeezing my clit, and oh my oh my oh my wow that was fucking amazing.

I don’t remember much after that. There was some untying, some hard cock inside of me, but honestly, I was pretty much gone with the moaning and sensation that you would have thought I was on drugs, I was that out of it.

One hell of a way to live out a fantasy. Thank you, honey.

for the woman who has everything

Today, I ran across the craziest bit of bling (and normally I, like most girls, am healthily attracted to bling) that I’ve ever seen in my life.

That is to say, I found a $1500 vibrator.

Yeah, you read that right.

Called the YVA Gold, the thing is a cordless, rechargeable vibrator made from sterling silver and handmade in 18K gold plate. Also comes with a moleskin carry pouch, natch, because that’s just hip.

Don’t get me wrong. I love expensive trinkets. I love hip things. But for $1500, this thing better climb out of the drawer on its own, waken me slowly, take its time arousing me and undressing me, suck my nipples, tease my clit until I come, slam me into the wall with a good deep dicking, clean me up with a warm wet cloth and light my cigarette for me.

Not that I smoke any more. But you get the idea.

$1500? Pleasure couture? Really?

I wonder if pussy juice is corrosive, or would help protect the sterling from tarnish. Anyone?

why must women be the bearer?

Lately, I’ve been reading some things that make it hard for me to maintain a grip on my feelings towards men. I realize, fully and completely, how stupid and pointless and unfair it is to tar an entire gender with the same brush.

And yet. The theme this week seems to be: woman as bearer.

First, a book I just finished this week called Nine Parts of Desire: The Hidden World of Islamic Women. Little surprise, then, that gender and religion and outrages can get very tied together, particularly when the book is written by a Western feminist journalist, who tries & sometimes manages (but sometimes fails) to present a balanced view.
What amazed me most was not so much the restrictions on the lives and freedoms of women (these, I mostly knew about, at least academically) but the reasoning behind them. In case after case, these restrictions – from the intellectually offensive requirement that women speak at a whisper and at a minimum when around males, to the physically and emotionally repugnant genital mutilations – existed because women could too easily arouse men. If a woman smiles at a man, he will believe she loves him; if she speaks to him, he may become too aroused to do his work.

Fast-cut-forward to a NYT piece I read this week that described the “disturbing, frightening, traumatic” experiences of men who had seen their wives give birth, actually seen the little furry head popping out of the body, so to speak. They were upset by the view. They couldn’t think of their wives as sexual afterwards. Who wants to make love to that?

And in each and every instance, it seems like the unspoken text is this: women, you just have to deal with this. We men are just too sensitive to deal with your sexuality, your pain, your very presence. You will have to bear the burden of pushing this watermelon I helped create out all on your own, because my delicate fucking sensibilities are being negatively impacted by merely observing what you must physically endure. We’re sorry we’re so delicate, so quick to arousal and useless once we’re that way, so capable of watching men get blown to bits on screen or in person but incapable of looking at your hair or watching you give birth to our child, but it’s just the way it is, and you women, as you always have, will just have to take up the slack. So sorry. Apologies, and all that.

It, in a sardonic way, reminds me of the line Sharon Stone utters in Catwoman, probably the best line in the whole movie: “I’m a woman, detective. I’m used to doing all kinds of things I don’t want to do.”

I can’t help it. It just makes me want to take every single one of these men, the men in the book and the men in the article, and shake them, shake them in a way that would get a British nanny fired, until their useless soft little brains are mere putty against their thick skulls and they can no longer hurt, or even stress out, the women in their lives.

Oh, some days I just think the Amazons had the right of it…

sex toys and Stephen King

Mark Morford was telling me this morning all about something that he thinks is the most sex-positive thing to happen in simply ages.
The news is simple. Amazon sells sex toys. (Okay, that’s not exactly news. But I love his take on it.)

What a wonderful message this sends. What a desperately needed notion for a sex-starved and deeply misinformed, orgasmically uncertain nation. It is this: Sex and the heavenly toys that enhance and enliven it need not be some secret ugly thing, hidden, hesitant, embarrassing, separate from your “regular” life.

I have to agree. People’s shame about this is so patently ridiculous and backward and so not in the direction we need to go. Sex is normal. Masturbation is normal. Getting lubed up and trying a new buzzing sex toy is not only normal but wonderful and if you haven’t done it lately then why not? There are days when I feel we need billboards proclaiming this from sea to shining sea. Full-page ads in the NY Times. That sort of thing.

However, I will say that I’m also nervous. Nervous that the reason Amazon still carries this stuff isn’t because they’re committed to this concept but because no major right-wingers have freaked on their heads yet. Not to say that I don’t think that Amazon is a clever company – I do, and they have many, many of my dollars to prove it – but I also think they’re a company, a big one, and I’ve yet to see a big company stand up to the kind of right-wing close-your-knees sex-is-only-for-procreation (in the dark, with clothes still on) publicity wheel that can get grinding when someone who says they’re about family but clearly doesn’t believe in the act that CAUSES them decides to Protect Our Values and Our Children.

Time will tell, I suppose. I hope Amazon’s got the spine and the internal commitment to stand up to this kind of attack (because you know it will come. you know you do.).
In the meantime, go! Buy a new battery vibe (702 products) or lube (2941 products) already!

(2941 different species of lube? Really?)

the office flirtation

I’ve recently been reading Sex in the Office, yet another in a long series of Black Lace short story collections, and I have to admit, the whole Sex in the Office thing does it for me.

Actually, the whole forbidden fruit thing does it for me, period, but that’s a whole other post. 🙂

Even if there isn’t any sex, the promise of sex, the teasing and tantalizing and flirtation of the office crush is a heady experience.

It’s about adrenaline. Adrenaline surging through your veins when you talk to him, when he talks to you, when that look gets exchanged. It’s like working with sweet wine running through your veins.

Every sense heightened.

Even more important in this day and age is the digital flirt while at the office. You’re sitting apart, maybe at opposite ends of the building, and to everyone else it looks like you’re working. But you’re not. You’re saying saucy and salacious things via email with a coworker (or even more tempting, a boss), and like Bridget Jones says, the sending of flirty emails can be seductive.

It’s like one, long, drawn out, heart stopping, toe curling, tease. What’s more, there are a LOT of times when that’s all there is – it never gets further than that.

But damn while it lasts, aren’t you turned on? Aren’t you hyper aware of each of your naughty bits under your casual business attire? Doesn’t the restroom, the broom closet, the service elevator, start to look a whole lot different to you?

Don’t you just start imagining hot sweaty sex in all kinds of inappropriate places? (Elevators and boardrooms were always my two downfalls – for fantasies, at least.) Haven’t you noticed that your desk has just enough space and darkness underneath it to hide another person, if they were REALLY quiet?

The office flirtation can be brutal if it ends badly, if people get hurt, if you’re caught breaking the rules. But while it lasts – whoo baby, some hot and gooey fun can be had.

coming clean about getting dirty

Bear with me, all, this post’s been a long time in coming. And those of you who still manage to stop by occasionally may begin to understand why Vikki’s been such a quiet little thing this year.

It’s been a tough year. There’s been cancer, and almost-cancer, a heart attack, aneurisms, a cat that said goodbye, sick dogs, one very young death, new jobs and new apartments and business crises and a new relationship that has somehow weathered that past year and is still going strong, if not quite as naked-sexy-writhing-on-rubber-sheets as we’d both like.

And I’ve read that some people actually manage to get off on all that crisis, manage to take all those shakes at normalcy and mortality and turn it into something frantic and moist and pulsing between two (or more) naked bodies. Good on ’em, I say. For me, it’s been sufficiently crazy and emotional and gut-wrenchingly tense that I’m lucky to get in the mood at all, some nights. Luckily, I have a very patient (when I can’t) and sexy (when I can) man in my life.

But I’d be lying if I said this year hasn’t had an effect. I haven’t played as much as I’d like, haven’t had my face shoved into the bed while my ass is de-pantified rapidly and abruptly for some spankings and a good hard fucking nearly as often as I’d love.

And it’s turning me into a bit of a control freak. It’s making me whimpery and whiny (at least internally) when things aren’t absolutely perfect, if sex tries (naughty, sex) to happen when I haven’t planned or anticipated it to happen, if it happens where or how I haven’t imagined it, and sometimes my body shuts down. But really, most of the time it’s my mind, somehow struggling for control in this one area, I think, since I seem to have so little control over illness and mortality and all that other horrifying human shit.

I hate it. I want to get back to Little Miss Goes With The Flow, the woman who may want to control everything at work but can snap into submissive mode in a heartbeat with the right firm hand on the back of my neck, the right harsh sexy tone whispered in my ear. And my man can help with this, but a lot of it has to happen inside me.

I have to damned well relax. I have to give in, give up, not worry so much about what’s going to happen if I’m not driving for ten goddamned minutes. I have to stop worrying about not being perfect.

And so, the plan. That’s what you’ve all been waiting for, hasn’t it? Some reassurance that the lady sex blogger isn’t just going to implode all over your computer screen, and not in a good way?

I’m going back to basics. Back to where I was five years ago when I escaped my marriage with only the tatters of my self esteem wrapped around me and my sex drive dialled down to zero.

I’m going to start devoting time to my sexuality. Same as I’d devote time to walking the dog or calling my mom or having moments of meditation, all the things we do for ourselves every week to keep us sane. Just a little each day, something to make me feel sexy or earthy or slick and wanton. Taking more baths. Reading more erotica. Playing more with my poor, neglected sex toys before they leave me for good.

Wanna watch? *wink*

it is within you

A blanket response to all the women who have e-mailed me lately looking for relationship advice:

I don’t know why it is that women will stay in hurtful, dead or downright abusive relationships for as long as they do. “But I love him!” they moan.

[I’m lying. Of course I know why. I used to be the exact same way. I abused myself over and over in bad relationships, and it took me a HELL of a long time to figure out that I love myself too damn much to allow it to ever happen again.]

Now, listen to me closely: If you stay with a man who is treating you like shit just because you love him then you deserve everything you get.

I’m not talking about the usual squabbles between a man and a woman. I mean when you’re describing your relationship to others for some kind of confirmation and even to your own, biased ears it sounds horrifying.

If you’re at this point, you already know he’s treating you like shit.
The question is: why are you still letting him?

You, none of you, need my help, my advice, my opinions. Everything you need is already inside you. Go. Spend some time inside. I promise. You’ll figure it out.


Life has been crazy lately. It has been tense, it has been busy, and it has required me to be Alert And In Control far too often. My S.O.’s life has also been tense and busy. Our visits with each other have been far less frequent than either of us would like at this point, and often we’re both so tired and stressed that all we’re up to doing is cuddle, a movie, and fairly vanilla sex before crashing into sleep.

All of this just serves to remind me what a difference regular BDSM play can make to my state of mind. I’m less anxious, more comfortable in my work which requires a fair amount of responsibility, and generally I afterglow, as Jane Black describes in a recent GoodVibes article, for much longer than a cuddle and vanilla sex provide.

Though he hasn’t said so outright, I know my partner feels the same way. We are, when deprived of the time and energy to scene properly, even more tense and exhausted. Seems like a downward spiral at times, though each of our situations should improve within the next few weeks.

I miss my collar. I miss the feel of leather and metal against my wrists, my ankles. I miss being tied so tightly that I cannot move even if I really, really struggled. I miss the kiss of the flogger, the sting of a spanking, the warm throbbing sensation between my thighs as my body and my mind process all these sensations. I even miss the wicked wooden paddle that hangs on the back of my bedroom door, though I’ll deny it should anyone – ahem – ask. 🙂

I also miss the release that comes from being rebellious, a little bratty and fractious, and being overwhelmed and brought back into line by my lover. It is a release of stress and built-up angst, just as powerful as orgasm or the endorphin rush that comes from a good spanking or paddling. Just as critical to my psyche, as well. Without that release, the brattiness just builds and builds until I could go whole-temper-tantrum on my life. Being taken in hand, put back into line, restores a balance in my own life and in our relationship together that I know we both need, very much.

I cannot wait until we have the time for me to spend at least a chunk of a weekend in collar, tucked safe and secure in my lover’s control.

But for now, I will just savor my cravings. Hunger just makes the meal taste sweeter.

the importance of orgasms

[Wow. Did I really last post something here two months ago? I’m so sorry, folks, it has been a tough time and the days and weeks have been slipping away from me too quickly, sand through my fingers and no real way to grab on of late. But I do promise to try and do better, for the one or two of you who still visit this wee diary.]

For the record: I really, really hate the debate about whether the female orgasm has importance from an evolutionary standpoint or whether it’s a vestigal function left over from the period in a baby’s development when it has not yet chosen pink or blue.

Partially, I hate the debate because too many people can still drop the “from an evolutionary standpoint” portion of that sentence, and go forward believing that really, the female orgasm isn’t important. Or at least, not as important as a man’s. I realize that this is not the message science is trying to convey, but let’s not forget the selective memory and understanding of the average Joe watching this on the evening news.

I also hate the debate because I’m really not convinced it’s important. Kind of like the scientific energy put towards seedless watermelons. Does knowing the answer to this question really matter when we have cancer and AIDS and really nasty shit out there that we don’t have answers for yet?

And finally, I find the debate pointless because regardless of whether it’s evolutionally important or not, it’s just damned important. 🙂 As in, I’d like as many as physically possible, please. If you don’t mind.

Boys can come. Girls can come. Not everyone comes during intercourse, not even boys, sometimes. And most everyone comes during times other than intercourse. Orgasms are not a necessity on a play-by-play basis, but by God, they are important, and, by the way, gimme gimme gimme. Then we’ll do you. OK?