You’ve got to love any essay on kinky sex that starts out:

I didn’t just want to write a wank post. There are plenty of posts on the internet about how kinky sex is all whee and shiny and woah, just look at me go!

I. Win. At! Perverted! SEX!

I didn’t want to write one of those. But I wanted to write something that was as real and close and true as I could get it.

That’s from What it Feels Like to Hurt a Man Until it Makes You Have an Orgasm. (Thanks to Bondage Blog for the link.)

From the essay:

I rush the start. The shortest sharpest route to hurter and hurtee. Most often: hair pulling. I love hair pulling. It hurts, you can move the head around, it’s dehumanising. It has everything. It always seems to make the mouth go squooshy and limp. Open and aroused. That mouth thing again.

There is only one problem with hair pulling – aesthetically I love the shaved head look on a guy. It’s that stupid submissive+masculinity fetish I have. Imagine my dilemma. Oh, the quandary. Shaved-head vs pulling-hair. The trial of my life. Who’d be me?

Anyway, so if he has no hair or a super short crop (mmm, joy/frustration/joy), I’ll twist his nipples or find some other hair to pull. ‘Cause he’s naked, right, you knew that? I’m probably not naked, but probably not dressed. And certainly not *dressed* *up*.

Oh, and this stage is really *the* *best* if he is on a chair, in the cuffs and I am on his lap. *The* *best*. All interrogationy – and super hot to the power of motherfuck.

I like to kiss him while I hurt him. I love kissing. This type of kissing is compulsory. Some guys seem to like cold and calculated. Not actually visibly turned on. With me no kissing is a deal breaker. I mean that for real. I have stopped a thing before it started because he had a girlfriend who was fine with play but not kissing — or so he said — and that was probably a lucky escape.

Anyway that icy thing, that isn’t what you get with me. I get very turned on very fast. I am usually more turned on than the guy I am with from quite early on. And doing most of the panting and moaning.

…

I get a lot turned having d/s sex (that being mostly the reason why we are all here) on and when I am turned on I like to kiss. Mouth fetish. I like sticking things in men’s mouths. My tongue is my favourite of those things. These pain flavoured kisses while he’s *hurting* are the best kisses.

I like it when he screams into my mouth.

Like?

I *adore* it when he screams into my mouth

I often keep going with the hurting and kissing until he can’t hold it together to kiss me back anymore. Assuming he’s a submissive or a masochist he’s usually very hard at this point if he wasn’t already very hard, like, you know, when I met him at the railway station.

I often put clamps on him now and if he doesn’t scream really fucking loud, I take them off and put them on him again. And that’s really painful.

And then there’s the hitting:

The hitting, I think, is kind of the equivalent of your earth foreplay. It’s not instead of kissing or fingering or oral — ’cause I might do any or all of those things too. But it’s kind of like that. Another layer. Sometimes more than one body part is required — but most men have more than one body part.

This — I want to be clear — is where it is. This is the point where I know who I am and what I am with absolute abiding clarity. Whatever else I say. All my other fancies and frills. You could take them all if you left me this. I hurt a man and I feel the most intensely pleasurable sensations I think my body is capable of. There is no intrigued here. No one else could have made this of me. I live here. This is home. This I know.

I am a sadist. I get turned on hurting people.

I like pain. I like it quite simple. I don’t want to be distracted or have my concentration focused outside of my body. I don’t do anything flash. I’m generally uncoordinated and clumsy. I know there is little point in me trying to be all fancy with whips or anything too clever or hard to handle. I’m not dexterous. I can’t put on a show. I don’t insert things in his urethra or breathe fire. I don’t tap dance. I miss sometimes. The first ten are always practice. I lose my grip. My skill set is tiny. What I do is often unaesthetic and messy and awkward. But I’ve been doing this a while and what I do works. It hurts and it doesn’t rupture internal organs. It turns me on and I am now at point where I know that that is fine. That hurting men can be something that is decidedly not performance art and that is fucking damn okay. It’s sex, not cabaret.

Do you like (almost) bald women? Did you think Natalie Portman’s character in the movie “V for Vendetta” was cute with a shaved head, despite (or because of) all the mean things that were being done to her in the name of liberty?

Well, if so, you may greatly enjoy the photos of recently-shorn Max Mikita suffering (and enjoying it) at the hands of Mark Davis. Here you can see them hugging after their intense photo shoot:

The bondage blowjob photo and the dripping-hot-wax-on-her-scalp photo are pretty intense by ErosBlog standards, but I think you’ll enjoy them. What, from Sex And Submission you expect maybe something boring?

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Fine art at its finest, found on Usenet:

J got back from a long trip Saturday night…..and boy did we make up for being apart! He had other things to catch up on too, but I didn’t want to let him go…….and I noticed that whenever I put on his work shirt instead of my clothes, he couldn’t keep his hands off me. I convinced him to play hooky from work with me yesterday and he just now left with a big smile on his face because he got a surprise bj this morning.

What is it about wearing a guy’s shirt that is so sexy? They aren’t cut to be as flattering as alot of lingerie, there’s no seethrough or clinging fabric…..is it that we somehow become “theirs” when we’ve wrapped our boobies in their shirt? Or is it just a simple but powerful cue reminding them that we like them?

Whatever it is, I like it alot. And I’m going to remember it.

Sounds to me like somebody’s just itching for a spanking, but hey, maybe that’s just me:

I created a game in my head one day when Gadget was plunging his most needy part inside my most needy bit. I thought,

Men can get so heated when it comes to sex, and I love that. How can I inspire him to become more heated, even if we’re both a little down, and while at the same time, have a little bit of fun?

The game is called The Deprivation Game and is composed of just that, momentary sexual deprivation. When he strives to fuck me ever harder, I thrust down my pelvis so that his energetically pumping cock slips out. His usual reaction is along the lines of,

Oh no please baby, please! No, no, no, please. Please baby.

Accompanied by whimpering, a scrunched up emotional face and phantom fucking, as my strong thighs push down on his, barring access to the bits he wants most to plunge into. His struggle against me can get quite heated at times, and then one of two things happen:

1. Just as he starts to give up and rest his forehead against my shoulder, I slip my hips down agasint him and he slides in, and happily restarts his rhythm against me.

2. Or, (my favorite) he grabs my shoulder and under my neck and pushes down on top of me, conquering my sex with a forceful thrust and begins his pace once again.

Either way its bravo for both of us because the sex continues. Though I’m not a fan of violence or rape, as I’ve been a victim to both, I love how his carnal side comes out in full force. I also love the flip side of it: He becomes a whimpering sex deprived little boy.

So again either way I’m turned on and entertained. Wicked am I.

Some pictures just can’t be improved by commentary:

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Before there were French postcards — hell, before there were nude photographs — there were daguerreotypes, and of course those early daguerrotypists, being French, pointed their metal plates coated with stinky chemicals at the nude ladies. (Well, perhaps not ladies in the social sense of the word.) With results of a surprisingly modern character:

The image is from a large French daguerrotype from the mid 1850s, currently to be found in the collection of the J. Paul Getty Museum, and titled (by them) Nude Study of a Black Woman. A bit of erudite commentary can be found here:

I do not recall how I first came to find her image, but I knew instantly that it was rare and important. It was stored in a box all by itself, and I would probably never have found it had I not worked in the museum that owned it. She was extraordinary — a young black woman in France almost 140 years ago, naked and displayed and open and touching herself and reclining and smiling. The lace coverlet on which she is posed reminds me fondly, sweetly of my own grandmother’s linens, while her frankness and sexuality remind me of everything that is not my grandmother. Through all of my research I have never seen another piece of 19th century photo erotica quite like this. The daguerreotype plate is of an impressive size, and I wonder what was so extraordinary about this model to merit such special treatment, since by the mid 1850s, when this was made, the popularity of daguerreotypes in France was waning in favor of simpler positive/negative processes. Moreover, I am intrigued by what could possibly be the connection between this photographer’s model, perhaps a prostitute, a continent and a culture and a century and a half away, and me.

She is completely bare except for her head wrapped in the fashion of West Indian women. Ironically, despite her complete exposure, this small cultural marker is the only real clue as to who she might have been. She is positioned awkwardly, expressly for the act of being viewed, and we seem to see every inch of her except for her lower legs and feet. The focal point of the image, her open crotch, is coyly out of focus, yet with the explicit placement of her fingers she invites us to look, simultaneously avoiding the viewer with her gaze. Either in modesty or carnal complicity, the medium obscures her sex in murkiness.