Beating the Stigma: Whipsmart Thoughts on Kink and Mental Health


It’s funny to me that many people think of kink as dark, dangerous, and edgy. It can be all of those things, of course. But for me, it’s not scary or mysterious. It’s a key part of how my brain works and how I relate to other people. It’s a sexual interest and also a non-sexual paradigm. And sometimes, it’s a boon for my mental health.

Earlier this year, I entered the last semester of my four-year journalism degree, and found myself unable to cope with the challenges it brought. Newsrooms are an anxiety-provoking place to begin with, and I was also experiencing one of the worst anxious and depressive episodes of my life – so, as much as I wanted to be up to the task, I just wasn’t. Two days in the newsroom were enough to convince me of that: the real work hadn’t even begun yet, and already my heart pounded, my mind shouted self-hating epithets at me, and I found myself thinking everything would just be easier if I walked out in front of a speeding truck.

I spoke to one of my instructors, and she – blessedly – was sympathetic to my cause. We discussed possible accommodations and arrived at the idea that I’d get my final credit by creating a journalistic audio series on a topic of my choice.

Over the preceding months, I’d found that my bad mental health days could sometimes be turned around by an intense spanking, a service-submission BJ, or various other acts of kink. Giving up control to a partner made me feel, ultimately, more in control of my life. So the intersection between kink and mental health was front-and-centre in my mind at that time, and I pitched that as a topic for my audio series. My prof loved it, and so I began.

I spent the next six weeks producing Beating the Stigma. Several local sweethearts volunteered for interviews, and generously lent me their time and energy to discuss this topic on tape. Our conversations ranged from intense to funny to mindblowing, and were often all three. I’m so so grateful to my interviewees for being candid and clever every step of the way.

You can listen to the whole series by clicking here, or you can skip to specific chapters below:

Chapter 1: Introductions

Chapter 2: Pain

Chapter 3: DD/lg

Chapter 4: Dominance

Chapter 5: Safe, Sane and Consensual

Chapter 6: Trauma and Recovery

Chapter 7: Sex 2.0

Chapter 8: Aftercare

I hope this series sparks some thoughts and feelings for you! The process of producing it certainly brought a lot to the surface for me.

I’m a Good Girl


Sometime in 1995. I’m a good girl. An exceptional, clever little girl. I know I am. I’m three years old and I’m reading aloud from the TV Guide to my mom. “Set in an apartment building in New York City, I Love Lucy centers on Lucy Ricardo (Lucille Ball) and her singer/bandleader husband Ricky Ricardo (Desi Arnaz), along with their best friends and landlords…”

“Okay, wait, wait,” my mom says, laughing. “You’re not really reading that. You just know Lucy ’cause we’ve watched it so many times.” She slides the small magazine from my hands, flips it to a page about some nature documentary or political drama, and hands it back to me.

I read it to her. Barely stumble on any words. And then look up at her with wide eyes, knowing (and awaiting) what’s coming.

“Oh my god,” she deadpans. “You can read now?” I nod. An addiction to educational CD-Roms will do that to a person. She gulps. “What a good, smart girl you are!” Yeah, mom. I know.

Winter 2010. I’m a good, smart, studious girl. I’m waiting for my 9AM high school philosophy class to start, and I’ve got my nose buried in some snappy, captivating tome – Alain de Botton, maybe, or Mary Roach.

My philosophy teacher walks in, toting his literature-stuffed messenger bag, thermos of cafeteria coffee, and signature charisma. “Good morning, plebes!” he crows. “Ready to talk about existential dread?!” He’s my favorite teacher, and I’ve had so many good ones. Nerdy, witty, and unflaggingly enthusiastic, he’s like if Adam Brody and Jimmy Fallon had a (breathtakingly handsome) lovechild.

My classmates continue to buzz and chatter like nothing has happened. While he waits for the slide projector to power up, he sidles over to me. “Hey, bookworm! I’ve noticed you share my love of the written word,” he comments, gesturing at the book I’m clutching. “What is it this time?”

I tell him. The details of my answer are inconsequential. I don’t remember what book I was reading, or what I said to him. What sticks with me is his reply. “Ohhh,” he coos, raising his eyebrows like I’ve just said the most fascinating thing in the world. “Good girl!”

I have no idea how to respond to this or what I am feeling – the hot burst of blood rushing to my cheeks, the flood of carnal butterflies migrating southward – so I just giggle and get back to my book. He strides to the front of the room and starts a lecture on Sisyphus. Or Sartre. Or something.

September 2015. I’m a good girl – usually. Good, polite, conscientious girls don’t sext when their friends are around. Unless, of course, their friends are cool with it. Mine are. I’m lucky.

“He said he wants to see how deep I can get him in my mouth,” I call out to the room at large. I’m in Bex‘s office on the air mattress serving as my bed this trip. Bex, Penny and Lilly are in the next room, watching TV or playing video games or… I don’t know, actually. I’m pretty absorbed in my phone. “What should I say?”

“‘Yes, sir, I promise I’ll do my best,'” Bex supplies. They’re way better at this than I am. I type the words into my phone unquestioningly and hit “send.”

I do that thing you do when you’re sexting with someone you really like and they’re a little slow to answer. I pick up my laptop, then my journal, then the pajamas I laid out to change into twenty minutes ago, but none of them holds my attention because right now I have zero brainpower for anything that isn’t the domly dude on the other side of that phone.

It buzzes. I lunge at it. “Good girl,” the illuminated screen tells me.

Before I even know what’s happening, I’ve screamed and thrown my phone halfway across the room.

“What?!” Bex cries, running in to see me. “What happened?” They look at my phone, lying face-down on their hardwood floor (both phone and floor thankfully unharmed).

“He good-girl’ed me,” I say, helplessly. I really don’t know why I threw my phone, or screamed, or had the breath knocked out of me. I’ve never responded that way to a sext before, not even a really, really dirty one. I’m stunned.

My friends make noises of sympathy that are hard to translate into written words. Hnnng. Unf. YESSSS. They understand. I feel less silly than I did in the moment when I thought I’d broken my phone, or Bex’s floor. But my body and mind still feel thoroughly unhinged, and when I awkwardly ask the group if it’d be okay if I jerked off, they don’t seem remotely surprised. They say yes, and I do, and it’s good.

October 2015. I’m a good girl, scribbling notes furiously while my psychology professor talks. My grade in this class has consistently surpassed all my other grades this semester. I tell myself it’s because the subject matter captures my attention more, or the late-afternoon class time works better for my sleepy brain. That’s not why, though. I’m doing well because my professor is appallingly attractive and gives me heart feelings and vag feelings and daddy-kink feelings. I’ve nicknamed him “Professor Hot Dad,” taken to calling him “PhD” as shorthand when I tell my friends about him, and they know it doesn’t stand for Doctor of Philosophy.

Today’s lecture is about developmental psychology, and I’m dying. “Some theorists say reinforcement and punishment are most of how we learn,” he explains, raking a hand through his sandy blonde hair and changing the slide. “Like, you know, ‘Be a good girl for daddy, princess, and maybe he’ll get you an ice cream cone.’ That kind of thing.”

I let out an involuntary sigh so loud that people turn to look at me. I grab my bag, get up, and leave the class for a minute, ostensibly to get a drink of water or use the bathroom. But instead of doing either of those things, I just stand outside the classroom, tweet, and try to breathe.

December 2015. I’m a good girl, waiting at Bex’s house all day for them to get home from work so we can drink wine, watch Magic Mike XXL and maybe spank each other on Periscope for funsies. But even good girls get bored sometimes when they’re cooped up inside. So maybe they send taunting texts to their domly fuckbuddies back home in Toronto.

Our digital flirting starts light, then gets heavier. And then he tells me to go get my toys and come for him. “Why should I?” I demand, full of sass and spunk.

“Because you’re a good little girl,” he replies. Um. Yup. Yes I am. I hunt for my Tango and Double Trouble in my suitcase and make excellent use of them, immediately, so I can tell him I did. He’ll be so proud.

February 2016. I’m a good girl, cheeks still glowing pink from a guiltily recent blowjob. We’re out for dinner at the brew pub and no one in this place can even tell what we were up to twenty minutes ago. Well, probably not, anyway.

Sipping a pint and nibbling my chicken club sandwich, I can’t get my eyes off my clever, handsome friend as he tells me funny stories, slips in and out of silly voices to make me laugh, gets all puffed up from the pleasure of sharing a jovial meal with someone who’s just blown you.

We’re talking about kinks. This is a frequent topic of conversation for us, two dyed-in-the-wool sex nerds, though we come at it from pretty disparate perspectives: I’m a burgeoning little kinkster, and he’s a self-described vanilla dude. “One of my exes used to call me ‘daddy,’ and liked me to call her ‘princess,'” he recounts, casually digging into his curry like he didn’t just drop a bomb on me.

I laugh a little too loud. “Well! I’m having feelings about you saying those words,” I tell him honestly, which I probably wouldn’t if I was just a little sober-er. “At least you didn’t say ‘good girl.’ Then we’d really be in trouble.”

He stares at me blankly. Vanilla people always do.

March 2016. I’m a good girl. I’m a good girl. That’s what my boyfriend keeps telling me as he roughly rubs his fingers in and out of me, scoring my A-spot with ecstatic stripes. “That’s your sweet spot, huh, babygirl? You’re getting so wet for daddy,” he murmurs against my thigh, speeding up his thrusts. “You gonna be a good girl and come for me?” I do. Immediately. What can I say – he’s got a way with words.

It takes me long minutes to catch my breath and slow my heart. He holds me while I recover from rapture. When I’m well enough to speak, I tell him, “Holy shit. You are really good at dirty talk.”

He shrugs. “Yeah. I’m pretty good at knowing what people want to hear.” And though I don’t say so, I’m crushed. Those words aren’t hot because I want to hear them; they’re hot because I thought he wanted to say them. I thought he was getting off on being my domineering daddy, same as I got off on being his good little girl.

We’re only together a couple more weeks after that, and one of the reasons is: I can’t trust someone who only tells me what I want to hear. I can’t go deep into my dark, taboo, intimate kink with someone who’s standing on the outside of it, performing the ritualistic rites without actually being part of the club. It’s a sharp, staggering betrayal that he thinks “good girl” is a character I’m playing, a mask I’m wearing. He doesn’t see me. He doesn’t see what I am.

Early April 2016. I’m a good girl, dutifully working on my last assignment of the semester, when I get a message from a domly pothead acquaintance who wants to take me to my first marijuana dispensary.

“I can’t,” I explain. “My deadline’s soon and I still have so much work to do. I can only go if I get a ton done tomorrow.”

“I’m sure you’re the highly responsible type,” he tells me. “Work really hard all day tomorrow. Let weed serve as a motivator. Agreed?”

He should not be allowed to talk to me this way when I have so much to do and need to focus. “Are you getting kinda dom-y with me right now?” I ask, and add a “haha” so I’ll seem cool and nonchalant, although I am utterly not.

“Just friendly advice,” he says. “Read into it whatever you’d like.”

I bite my pen and stare at his message for a few moments before answering. “Okay,” I say. “I’ll work extra hard tomorrow.”

“Good girl,” he says. Dammit. Now I have to actually get my work done so he can take me to the freaking dispensary.

Late April 2016. I am a good, brave, capable girl. That’s what Bex tells me, sitting in their car in the parking lot of a Minneapolis pizzeria where I’m about to go on a Tinder date with a total stranger. “You can totally do this,” they assure me. “It’ll be fine.”

I’m still anxious. What if Tinder Dude doesn’t find me attractive IRL? What if I don’t find him attractive? What if he’s boring and insufferable? What if he thinks I’m boring and insufferable? “What if he’s a serial killer?” I ask Bex, because that seems like a more reasonable concern than all of the smaller worries puncturing my resolve.

“He won’t be,” my best friend promises. “But just incase: I expect you to text me within 15 minutes, to tell me all’s well. If I don’t hear from you by 7:30, I’ll come back with a Double Trouble in each hand.”

I laugh. “Okay, dad,” I sneer, leaning in to hug them goodnight. “I’ll text you.”

“Good girl,” Bex says, and I get out of the car with renewed grit and mettle. Whatever happens, happens. I can do it because Bex said I could. I’ll be good and go on this goddamn Tinder date.

Later that night, when dude is inside me, I reach down to touch my clit to try to get myself off. “Oh, you’re touching your pussy for me, huh?” he jeers. “Good girl.” I laugh in his face, because I’m amazed that I feel absolutely nothing in response to his words. No rush of arousal, no dutiful call to action, no swell of pride. Maybe this particular loaded compliment – like sex in general – only stirs emotions in me when I’m emotionally invested.

This stranger from the internet who I’ll never see again after tonight? He’s nice, and fun enough to spend an evening with. But I don’t care about him enough to try to impress him. I don’t care if he thinks I’m a good girl.

May 2016. I’m a good, talented, gutsy girl. I mount the stairs onto the stage of the 519 ballroom. Me and my ukulele get a warm welcome from the boisterous Smut in the 6ix crowd. “I’m gonna play you a song I wrote when I was just coming into my identity as a submissive person,” I purr into the mic. “It’s called Good Girl, because, uh… that is a phrase that gives me a lot of feelings.”

I strum the opening Cminor7 chord and go into my sweet, kinky little waltz. “Tie me to the bedposts, kiss my wristbones, leave bruises on my arms,” I sing. “Do it really nice, though – gentle and slow. Don’t leave me lasting harm.” I can remember the mythical dream dom partner I vividly envisioned when I wrote those words – someone I knew hadn’t entered my life yet but was drifting around the periphery, waiting to arrive for me when I least expect it.

As I come to the last line of the song – “I’ll show you that I’m a good girl” – the room bursts into applause, and I glow from the attention. The act before me was a beautiful burlesque performer who shamelessly stripped on stage, and that image lingers in my mind and emboldens me. “Is it okay if I take off my skirt?” I ask the audience, and they holler their jubilant yeses.

I shimmy out of my pencil skirt til it falls to the floor, and I’m just wearing my figure-hugging gold lamé bodysuit. I have one terrifying moment of self-consciousness – does the lamé make my belly look fat? Are my thighs too pale? Is my cellulite showing? – before someone near the front shouts, “Good girl!

Everything’s okay. I grin. I play my second song.

Help, It’s a Kinkmergency!: Make Your Own Self-Aftercare Kit

Here’s how you know I’m still relatively new to kink: I didn’t take aftercare seriously until very recently.

I viewed it largely the same way I view those safety presentations that flight attendants give before takeoff: this is something I should be aware of, but it probably won’t apply to my life.

See, I cried after the first time I had sex with a man, but for the most part, sex doesn’t unravel me. I think sex is less tied to emotions for me than it is for the average person, just judging by the questions I sometimes get when I tell friends about my sex life (e.g. “How can you have sex with someone you don’t have romantic feelings for?!” and “What?! You could ‘take or leave’ kissing? Really?!“).

But the thing is, kink is way more emotionally taxing than vanilla sex (at least in my experience), which is part of why aftercare is so important. When I’m just getting fucked or putting genitals in my mouth or whatever, I can roll over and fall asleep immediately afterwards, or start cracking jokes, or get up and leave. I can spend some time decompressing and debriefing, but I don’t need to. Shit’s different with kink.

My partners have normally been wonderful about aftercare. They gave it without me needing to ask for it or even use the word “aftercare.” But last week, I went into a play session feeling a bit psychologically off-kilter already (don’t do this!!), so the extended spanking and biting and slapping that typically would’ve been fine… wasn’t. I felt more shaken up than usual, to the point that I started crying and couldn’t even properly verbalize what my problem was. To make matters worse, my partner said something shame-y to me, and I don’t think he meant to, but I just couldn’t handle it at that moment.

So I did what you’re never supposed to do: I skipped aftercare. I put my clothes on and got the hell out of there, because I felt a strong need to distance myself from that person at that moment. It wasn’t the brightest decision I’ve ever made, but it felt necessary at that time.

The face of someone who needs aftercare.
The face of someone who needs aftercare.

I’m really lucky to have lots of clever and supportive folks following me on Twitter, so when I tweeted about my situation, I received lots of suggestions. Upon arriving home, I munched carrots and hummus while watching a cartoon show on Netflix, while still wearing my winter coat with the hood pulled up because I felt safer that way. After about an hour of sniffling and breathing and crunching and (eventually) giggling, I started to feel less horrible.

It got me thinking about how important it is to have self-care supplies on hand, incase of a kinkmergency like this. Sometimes your partner has to leave right away, and can’t give you the care you need after a scene; sometimes you have a conflict with a partner during sex that leaves you both wanting distance; hell, sometimes you might even do kink stuff by yourself that leaves you feeling vulnerable enough to need some aftercare. Here are some suggestions for items to have at the ready, just incase.


Calming media

In my recent time of need, I gravitated toward Mike Tyson Mysteries, because it’s bright, silly, and doesn’t require a whole lotta attention span. I think cartoons, in general, make for good aftercare viewing. Some of my kinky friends swear by Pixar movies or old episodes of Bill Nye the Science Guy.

If you’re more inclined toward grown-up media, you could watch something you’ve seen a zillion times already. (SherlockThe OfficeDead Poets Society?) Depending on how you’re feeling, it could be something funny or lighthearted, or something sad enough to induce some cathartic crying. Either could be helpful.

In addition to things to watch, you should also have things to listen to, incase that’s more the mood you’re in. I recommend quiet, soothing music (e.g. Jeremy Messersmith’s “Paper Moon,” Jim Guthrie’s Indie Game soundtrack, the Peaceful Piano playlist on Spotify) or something you’ve listened to so many times that you practically have the whole thing memorized (for me: Jeremy Larson’s “They Reappear” and the self-titled Fleet Foxes album). You could even make yourself a playlist of specific songs that reliably calm you down, and sync it to your phone/MP3 player/tablet/cloud, so you’ll have it at your fingertips whenever you need it.

Depending on your disposition and tastes, it can also be really calming to listen to well-spoken folks reading poems, monologues and such. For example, here is Benedict Cumberbatch reciting poetryTom Hiddleston reading a Shakespearian sonnet, and John Krasinski performing The Gingerbread Man.


Warm and cuddly things

Some people get overheated when overwhelmed by kink-related feelings; obviously you should listen to your body and do what feels best. But most people I speak to about this topic seem to say that they feel cold and/or shivery and need additional warmth after emotionally intense play.

To combat this, you can keep on hand some blankets, sweaters, coats, scarves, shawls, hats, socks, slippers, and/or mittens. In emotionally fragile times, I especially like to wear things that remind me of someone I love: a shawl my grandmother knitted, a jacket a friend gave me, some mittens my mom bought me.

You can also get warm by making yourself (or having someone else make you) some tea or hot chocolate, or by drawing a nice hot bath, ideally with some good-smelling stuff in it.

If you have access to a friendly pet, cuddle it. If not, a stuffed animal is almost as good. You can also try cuddling with real-live people if there are any around, and if that appeals. (It’s okay if it doesn’t. Sometimes the comedown from kink involves wanting your distance from other humans for a little while.)


Tools of self-expression and self-reflection

This will differ a lot from person to person and even from moment to moment, but you may want a way to process what just happened to you and what you’re feeling. You can keep it simple and just talk out loud about your feelings (I love to do this while sitting in a bath), or you can get a bit more involved and write in a journal, paint a picture, make some music, etc.

For stream-of-consciousness writing that I may or may not want to see ever again, I love Sometimes typing is easier than writing by hand, physically and maybe emotionally too, since you don’t have to focus quite so much on what you’re writing as you write it. A service like 750Words is also more secure than a physical journal, which might be important to you if you’re writing about sensitive topics and difficult feelings.



I like the smell of bath products from Lush, scented candles from Bath & Body Works, and lavender essential oil. Figure out what smells you like and keep ’em around if you can. You may want to put on a perfume that reminds you of a happy time in your life. (Bonus happy-hibernating-turtle points if you spray this into the front of a cowl or scarf and then pull it up over your nose.)


Grounding snacks and drinks

I’m finding that I really like cold, crunchy foods when I’m coming down from subspace or a sex-high. Fruits and veggies give me enough sensory stimulation to ease me back to earth, and they’re also full of nourishment and hydration, which are important when you’ve just endured something intense.

A friend of mine keeps ice cream around for aftercare purposes. Another friend likes to pick up donuts on the way to a sex-date so they’ll be available for consumption afterward. It might be useful to think in advance about your own food-related proclivities, so you can avoid foods that will make you feel anxious or gross and choose only the ones that’ll make you feel good and happy.

It’s also really important to re-hydrate after a kink scene, or any kind of sex. You lose a lot of fluids through sweating, coming, and (maybe) crying. Load up on water, tea, juice, sports drinks, or whatever other beverages your body is calling out for. (Alcohol’s probably not a great idea at this time, though.)


Kind words and feel-good memories

imageThis one’s a bit more abstract, but still important, I think. Start keeping a file or folder – whether digital or physical – that contains all the compliments you receive from friends, family, and even strangers. It’s so easy to forget the nice things people say about you, because they’re often outweighed by negative comments that stick in your head more easily.

If you’re having trouble coming up with material for this “compliment bank,” ask 10 of your closest pals what they think your 3 best qualities are.

You could also keep an ongoing jar of happy memories/good things, like Penny does, to leaf through when you need a pick-me-up. For aftercare purposes, it might be best if this is a physical object rather than just a digital list; the visceral quality of paper in your hands can help re-ground you.


What do you do when you need to provide your own aftercare? Or when you need to do self-care in general?

12 Days of Girly Juice: 3 Fave Encounters

When I was mapping out the different categories I wanted to cover for the 12 Days of Girly Juice, I wondered, “How can I possibly narrow down my sexual encounters to just 3 favorites?”

And then I thought about it for a few seconds and realized I knew exactly which 3 encounters I wanted to write about.


1. Confidence Fuck

When my 3.5-year-long relationship ended in 2014, we already hadn’t had sex in a few months. And then I went another year without dating or having sex with anyone. So that was rough.

Part of the problem was that my confidence was decimated. I had body anxiety and social anxiety and basically wondered if I was doomed to a life of hermitdom and celibacy.

But then in August, I went on a couple dates with an internet crush of mine, and we hooked up. In the grand scheme of things, it was nothing major, but it felt major. It ended a rut of self-loathing and self-pity that had kept me out of the game for a while, and kind of kickstarted a chain of sexy events.

It was also, y’know, fun and hot and great in its own right. And it definitely stands out as one of my strongest sexual memories of 2015, for reasons both emotional and sexual.


2. Dapper Dom Dude

I’ve long suppressed or backburner’ed my kinks, because most of my past partners were either pretty vanilla or even more submissive than me. Nonetheless, I undeniably wanted to be held down and hurt and called names and overpowered.

I had the good fortune of sleeping with a few different dom-y people in 2015; however, the first one has really stuck with me because that experience just felt so new and exciting. We only hooked up a couple times and barely scraped the surface of our kinks, but it was enough to give me a deeper sense of what I was looking for.

I learned I like having my tits slapped. Being called “good girl.” Having my hair pulled. Dark, filthy whispers in between kisses. Being held down while getting fucked hard. Commands like “Come for me.” All of it within a consent-conscious framework, with check-ins before, during, and after.

Well, fuck. How can your sex-brain not undergo a massive shift when all of that happens to you for the first time?


3. Emergency Threesome

I had a threesome with a close friend and a guy I’ve had a crush on for years.

In a big, beautiful, empty house that another close friend let us borrow for that express purpose.

It involved cunnilingus, blowjobs, handjobs, nipple play, boobs in faces, scruffy makeouts, smiling, giggling, a Pure Wand, and a voyeuristic cat named Seamus.

I mean. That’s pretty hard to top.


What were your favorite sexual adventures in 2015?

Sexamples #002: Adventures in Domination

“Leave the room, close the door, wait a minute, and then come back in.”

He scrunched up his eyebrows and looked at me funny. “What?” he said, laughing a little.

“You heard me, bitch,” I asserted. “Go out in the hall, shut the door, wait a bit, and then come back in.”

He wanted me to dominate him; I had been aware of this fact for several weeks but hadn’t yet acted on it, partially because I was afraid I wouldn’t know how to be a domme. But tonight was the night. Only, now, I had to get him to leave the room and come back in, to sort of “refresh” our dynamic – start over without the context of boyfriend/girlfriend looming over our heads.

Finally, he left. I rushed around the room fluffing pillows and taking off my top. I waited several seconds, then cleared my throat and awkwardly announced, “Come in now.” He opened the door and entered.

I made him go get a makeshift blindfold from my extensive scarf collection. I tied it firmly around his head so he couldn’t see a damn thing, and then I forced him into a kneeling position on the floor. Figuring I’d start by turning myself on so I could be a better dom, I offered him one of my nipples. He licked and sucked it eagerly, and I started to melt a little into this delicious role I’d put myself in.

He reached around to my back, trying to pull my breast further into his mouth, but I snapped, “Don’t touch me.” He dropped his hands obediently, and I felt a wicked surge of pride for my little slave-boy.

I told him to lie down on the bed on his back, and spent some time biting the various sensitive spots on his chest and abdomen, just hard enough to communicate my control over him. I noted his enormous hard-on just before climbing onto him and straddling his face.

Ever the tease, I held his hair down with one hand, stopping him from licking me, and used the other hand to dip into my pussy and give him a taste on my fingers. He moaned from just the flavor of me, clearly wanting more. I laughed at his desire, and then finally lowered myself down onto his tongue.

If there’s one thing my slave-boy is extremely skilled at, it’s cunnilingus. He can do it for hours and it’s always brilliant, because he’s learned all the tricks I like best. This time was no exception – he licked and sucked as though his life depended on it.

Looking behind me and again noticing his immense erection, I told him, “I’m not going to touch you at all until you make me come.” That certainly motivated him; he sped up his motions and went at my pussy with even more enthusiasm and fervor. I held onto the bed tight to keep from shaking uncontrollably as his tongue circled and flicked my clit over and over.

Finally, I arrived at a shuddering orgasm. He stayed with me the whole way through, sucking, pressing, gently stroking me with his cute little tongue.

I told him, “Good boy,” smiling, and fetched a condom from the bedside table. He put it on while still wearing the blindfold – impressive! Then I slinked down his quivering body and lowered myself onto his cock of granite. “I’m going to ride you until you come,” I whispered, and I did.