Yano I love talking to people online and offline about kink, BDSM, and all things encompassing fetish.

I don’t however enjoy getting random messages from people I have never spoken to before online who think that because I am on a fetish site you can treat me like a piece of fuckmeat.

It’s rude.

It’s insulting.

Take this one for example from a random NZ guy who graced my inbox with this…

The masochist in me says hmmmm?

The sane, logical ‘normal’ me says W.T.F you sick puppy!

Right now ima rootin for the masochist to win… yano … fuck normality.

Meanwhile I shall amuse myself with a fantastic find …

(clicky)

THIS is why I love art.

Fear.

What is it about fear that drives my masochism?

It gets me hot under the collar. It makes all my senses spring to life. Breathing becomes slightly shallow. Eyes dart. I’m on edge.

Dangling on that edge of not quite knowing where it’s going to start or end.

I hate the pain, I love it. I hate waiting for it to come. I love the after effects.

Picture this … impy sat on the couch hiding behind two cushions, all curled up into a little ball. The sadist is taking pot shots at the cushions with a BB gun.

I am staunch. I stare back. I curse and mutter. Every now and then a pellet hits the cushion and the vibration of the impact sends my fear through the roof.

No. Don’t. Stop that!  I’m quite adamant.

However … that fucking sick little masochist which I love so dearly that hides in the back of the recesses of my mind, crawls out and says .. yes?

Then stupid head hits. Foot in mouth.

“Yano, the logical part of my brain says don’t be a dumbass. Thats gonna hurt like hell. The masochist wants to know what it feels like.”

You stupid imp. STFU already. There’s a glint in his eye. I’m skeered.

This battle in the mind plays out whilst the sadist plays tag with the cushions and watches me twitch and jump.

After a while he runs out of pellets.

“Get them for me”

“Nah uh. no way”

Impy then proceeds to pick some up from the floor and throw them out the open front door.

Brat, abso-fucking-lutely.

The game stops, mind settles and gets distracted. I wander upstairs to grab a measuring tape to sort out desk sizing for my office space. I forget there is a sadist lying there with full view and a moving target. I forget all he has to do is move and he’ll find some stray pellets lying about.

I am reminded when a sting like a thousand bees hits my buttcheek.

Those mother fuckers hurt like hell.

Not once but twice.

One for each buttcheek.

Would i do it again? Yup.

Why? I blame that sick little masochistic bastard that lives in my head. ‘smiles’

“vanimp is into receiving butthurt from a BB gun”

That is all.

He’s in the kitchen.

It’s a quiet Sunday morning. The sizzle of meat in a frying pan and the occasional scraping of a spatula is the only noise heard.

She watches him intently from down on the floor where she’s kneeling. His shirt off, her eyes travel his finely muscled torso. A small whimper escapes from her mouth.

A collar encases her throat, attached to a chain clipped to his belt, her arms bound.

Her gaze meets his, he smiles in return and goes back to flipping the bacon. He leans over to reach for a plate and tugs on her leash.

Bending down to meet her gaze he delivers her breakfast at his feet. She waits patiently for his command.

‘Good girl, now eat up. Don’t get any on the floor or I’ll have to punish you pet’.

… sometimes a simple conversation can lead to a very wet cunt and a mind that wanders easily when presented with something as simple as breakfast.

I’ve been having some enlightening ones lately, conversations that is.
Frustratingly so.
But all the same, fantastical wank fodder.
Thank you. x

‘beams’

She wraps those hands around that pole,
She licks those lips and off we go,
She takes it off nice and slow,
‘Cause that’s PORNSTAR DANCIN’!

She don’t play nice, she makes me beg,
She drops that dress around her legs,
And I’m sittin’ right by the stage for this,
PORNSTAR DANCIN’!

‘goes off to find a pole’ .. that damn mohawk made me horny ‘grins’