A New Flu?

It was a lovely visit with BG on Saturday.
Except for how I felt afterwards.
"I hope I'm not coming down with something. Let me google my symptoms."

Imagine my surprise...

*******************
Dismissed by the medical community as "non-existent", Scene-Vector Sub-zero Dom-one (or s0D1) flu appears to be a non-contagious mutation of the common seasonal flu.
Short-lived in nature, s0D1 is a study in contrasts. Most people who experience the ailment speak of a remarkable sense of well-being that goes hand-in-hand with it's discomforts. Extreme cases may even mention an fervent longing to contract the flu again, SOON!

Yet despite these reports, the general medical consensus on the s0D1 variant is that it is "so much poppycock." A prominent physician, speaking on condition of anonymity, said, "I don't know who is fabricating this drivel but when they are found, they should be soundly spanked!"
:-)

Want to know if YOU might be suffering from s0D1?


(The stuff you can find on the internet, I tell ya!)

Happy Thanksgiving!

Date Night (part two)

As promised:

They stepped out of the cafe into the warm, dusky night. "Let's walk down to the park," suggested Edward.  He slid his arm around her waist and pulled her close for a kiss. "How you doin', babe?" he whispered. "Weak-kneed and glad you're holding me." He laughed and said to Tom, "I think she's having a little difficulty navigating. You might want to brace the other side."

"Anytime." Tom shot back, crossing his arm around her waist, too. "Great" she grumbled. "Now people will think I'm drunk." "Do you really care?" Edward asked, fingers doing a clever dance on the sensitive skin of her hip. Her breath caught in her throat and tremors surged through her. "No." she breathed. "Then hush up and enjoy it." They walked down the street, each man stroking the soft fabric across the hip beneath his hand. She, in turn, slid her hands around to their hips, where she tucked the tips of her fingers just inside the pocket of their pants and gently stroked the firm flesh beneath.

They wandered back to a wooded corner of the nearly-empty park. Lowering themselves to a small, open spot of grass, they sat amid the dark shadows and soft noises of the summer night. The sounds of the town rumbled at a distance but it was quiet and still in the secluded niche. She dropped back on the grass, feeling the prickle of cool grass beneath her bare legs and the burning of her nipples beneath her blouse. Her pussy pulsed with need but she was hopeful she wouldn't have to stand that much longer. She closed her eyes and concentrated on her breathing, waiting for the hands she was sure would come.

Untouched moments later, she opened her eyes to find both men smiling at her. "Uh-oh. What now?" she asked. Edward held out his hand to her. "C'mon. Sit up over here." He propped himself against a rock, then pulled her between his legs and sat her down, facing out. "Lean back against me." She snuggled back against him, letting his stiff dick nestle sweetly against her ass.  "Arms up, around my neck. Feet flat on the ground. Mmm, good." He crossed his legs beneath her thighs. "Now, stay like that. Don't move."

She leaned back against him, feeling opened and exposed, breasts thrusting out, with her knees elevated and apart. Her skirt slid down her thighs and pooled softly between her legs. Tom's eyes followed it's progress, then raised to meet hers. The throbbing in her pussy increased. Edward's hands came around her to unbutton her blouse for the second time that evening. He pulled the edges wide, uncovering her breasts, then cupping them in his hands and slipping them out of the bra. Tom moved onto all fours, his face looming closer. As Edward squeezed her mounds tightly, Tom's head lowered and he flicked his tongue across an aching tip. She moaned and thrust her needy tits toward him. "Ohhhh." He moved his head to deliver a quick bite to the other breast. "Oh, that's good!." Her body arched and rippled with longing. He pulled back and raised his hands to cup her face, kissing her softly. Tongue slid hungrily against tongue. She felt Edward's fingers tighten on her breasts as his cock lurched against her ass. God, she was wet!

Tom moved so that he was kneeling between her upraised thighs. "Lift up a minute. I'm going to scootch underneath you." He slid forward until he formed a wide diamond around her. He smoothed his hands down her legs, fitting them under his arms as he did. She whimpered and jutted her hips forward. "Shhhh. It's OK." He leaned down, examining the nipple jewelry in the dim light. He looked up at Edward. "Very pretty. But maybe a little loose."
"Well, go ahead and take them off. -  And, babe, don't move those hands or feet."

Tom took the weight of her breast from Edward into his own hand and slowly pulled the ring off. She moaned roughly. He leaned forward to bite her nipple. Her hips bucked. "OK, " said Edward. "Now the other one." Tom gave a hard suckle to the nipple he'd just released, then moved on. He dallied at the other breast until she cried out mindlessly. She kept her hands and feet planted but with one last wail she convulsed, yanking Edward's head down onto her shoulder as her heels dug in and her hips lifted clean off the ground. He bit the curve between shoulder and neck and ran his hands beneath her skirt, between her legs. Clamping his hands on her soft inner thighs, he slowly pushed her to the ground, pulling her legs wide. She panted as she stared into the heat of Tom's eyes. Her head rolled against Edward's chest.

"Oooo! I need to come," she whimpered. "Oh, God, Edward, please let me come! Tom? Fuck me, touch me, something? Just please, please, please - make me come!" 

Edward unclasped her hands from behind his neck. She heard rustling noises, then hands grabbed her ass and pulled her forward. She caught a glimpse of the rigid dick that jutted from Tom's open fly before she was roughly lowered onto it. "Uhn! Oh, that's good! Oh yeah! More, please!"

She rode the cock that was driving into her sopping pussy, while Edward pressed himself into her back and rode with her, wringing her tits in his hands while rubbing his dick against her. A series of small, teasing orgasms shook through her body, making her muscles clench and tighten but not taking her over the edge. Tom moaned beneath her. "Oh, shit, baby. Don't move like that or I'm gonna come!" His fingers dug into her hips. "Oh, God! Here I go!" He pistoned into her throbbing pussy as his head fell back with a loud groan. His thrusts diminished slowly and his hands slid from her hips. He dropped them to the ground beside him and pushed to take some weight off his knees.

"Sorry, guys, but I really need to straighten my legs," he grimaced. She rose off him slightly so he could roll and stretch out flat on the grass. Before she could move totally away, Edward blocked her. Settling her back astride Tom's hips, he moved behind her, hands on her shoulder, knees outside Tom's. He paused. "Do you mind?" he asked Tom. Tom grinned. "As long as I don't have to move for the next 5 minutes, I don't care what you do, man."

Edward smiled and pushed her forward until her breasts flattened into Tom's warm chest and his softened cock was a luscious, slippery pressure beneath her clit. Tom stroked his hands up her thighs and grasped her hips. His fingers tightened to hold her ass open as Edward thrust gently at the wetness between her legs. They both groaned as his rock-hard flesh slipped easily into her still-hungry cunt. Edward braced his arms on either side of the two prone bodies beneath him and drove his dick hard into her. Oh, yeah. This was going to do it. The feel of him filling her from behind was what she needed. She rocked back against him. Waves of sensation crashed through her as they moved harder together, one gorgeous cock inside her, one rubbing her clit, fucking her to paradise. Over. And over. And over. Again. Until, in nearly the same heartbeat, they stiffened, then cried out.

Slumped in a tangle on the ground, they concentrated on breathing. Finally she whispered, "oh, my."
"You said it, baby,"  as he kissed a shoulder and slipped out of her.

©Jz
-please do not steal my words-

Date Night - a story in two parts

Every year, I write SP a story for his birthday. And every year he says, "I really wish you would publish this." Well, I've never had the means before but now I do. So, even though this isn't the current tale or exactly the big day (we're close, tho'!) please join the celebration. 
To SP - much love and χρόνια πολλά. (Like, oh, maybe at least another 28?)

Date Night (part one)

"Where did you say we were going, again?"
"I didn't", Edward said, meeting her gaze in the mirror. "I just said you needed to be dressed appropriately when we went out." He reached around her and began to unbutton the white blouse she'd just done up. It opened to reveal her breasts, lushly displayed in a satiny half-bra, nipples peeking over the top.

"And I am. Half-bra, see? No panties, flirty skirt. All as ordered." She rubbed her rump back against him in further proof.  "I know, but you're missing something." He cupped her tits and began to squeeze, pinching the nipples between finger and thumb. Her head fell back onto his shoulder as they both watched his reflection knead the soft flesh. "Mmmmm, that's so good" she murmured, her eyes closing in pleasure.

A cold sting on her nipple made her eyes fly open again. He caught her eye in the mirror and grinned. "I bought you a present." She looked down and watched as his fingers pinched the jeweled ring close around her nipple. Her breath caught and she pressed herself closer into his hand. "Mmmm, yeah."
His hands moved to the other breast and fastened the other ring. "There. Now you're ready." He turned her toward him and pressed a kiss to her lips. Moaning, she rubbed against his chest. 

"Nice. But stop." he said, pushing her slightly away from him. He buttoned up her blouse, adjusting the fabric over her breasts. "Mmm, I like that. Your nipples look hot." "Hot?" she squeaked. "They may burn a hole in my shirt! Hon, I can't go out like this. I'm dripping wet and well on my way to coming already."

"Excellent. But you can't yet. Now, don't touch yourself. Just let your nipples burn and your pussy ache." He swatted her rump and pushed her gently toward the door. "Let's go."
_________________________

They were heading for a booth in the back of the cafe when she felt him stop. She heard, "May we join you?" and turned back. He was gesturing her into the empty side of the booth they'd just passed. She raised an eyebrow, then walked back and slid into the corner seat. Smiling across at her was a very attractive man. She smiled back as Edward tucked in beside her. "This is Tom, a friend from work." They exchanged pleasantries while the waiter came to take their order. Edward draped an arm across her shoulder. His fingers stroked her neck then dropped to her collarbone, continuing their caresses as he and Tom chatted. She was quiet, half-listening but mostly thinking about how very wet she was and how hot her burning nipples felt. She just hoped she didn't embarass herself in front of Tom.

Gradually, she became aware that Edward's fingers were pulling the fabric of her blouse smooth, so that it tautened across her breast with each stroke. Biting her lip, she lightly kicked his ankle under the table. Still talking, he ignored her but his fingers gathered a bunch of fabric and began to tug in a lazy rhythm. Oh, shit. He was slowly, imperceptably, using the cloth to massage her aching nipples. Oh, god. Her breath went shallow with arousal. She pinched his thigh, but he simply picked up her hand and brought it to his mouth. He nipped, then kissed two fingertips and growled, "Sit still."

Tom's lips twitched as he watched them. His eyes roamed over her flushed face, then down to her breasts. His eyes darkened as he watched the fabric stretch tight with every shaking breath. He glanced at Edward, who responded with a sharp pull that actually jostled her breast. She gave up and moaned. Tom's smile widened. He and Edward ceased talking and focused their attention on her chest. They seemed mesmerized by the movement of her flesh as Edward tugged her breast up and down. The tantalizing massage went on and on, leaving her fighting for control. All she could do was lean heavily into Edward and pray she could walk when it came time to leave.

"Man, that's hot. Are those ..., does she have something on her nipples under there?"
"Some jewelry, yes. In fact, I was about to check on it. Would you like to do that for me?"
"Hell, yeah."
"Mmm. OK. When we finish our drinks..."

(come back Tuesday for part two...)

©Jz
-please do not steal my words-

the n00b is agitated...

I have a couple of friends who are palpably distressed by any evidence of physical violence. I'm (obviously) a bit more sanguine about that but I have a similar reaction to violence against the self. The spark of humanity that resides in us all is, to me, something to be guarded and cherished. It is the thing that makes us human, the thing that makes us individuals, the thing that makes us what we ARE.

Objectification strikes at the very heart of my beliefs. So you can imagine my reaction when I read of people who have had experienced a deliberate, systematic, purposeful assault upon their sense of self. To hear of someone reduced to the status of "less than human" makes me snarl. That any person would do that to another is horrific. To do so under the guise of caring drops it to heinous.

But then I look further and find myself reading of people who voluntarily engage in their own self-objectification, people who willingly eradicate chunks of their own being, not even at the request of others but simply for another. In play, these actions would not bother me. To see them in real life, however? Well, I just cannot go there.

There are an infinite variety of flavors out there so I will not say It's Wrong. But I cannot blithely accept it, either. The very thought disturbs me, on multiple levels. It bothers me that anyone is willing to give up their very essence at the whim of someone else. It scares me that there are people out there who would want or expect someone to do that. It baffles me that someone would take that action voluntarily.

Yet I read the words: It's liberating, it's exhilarating, I'm happy to do it... 
I am willing to accept that these words are truth for the writers. However, that puts them on a plane so totally removed from mine, it is beyond my comprehension. I cannot think of any persuasion that would let me brave the karmic repercussions of killing my soul. If this makes me a failure as a submissive, so be it.  (Although, frankly, I fail to see how you are served by me being less than the most I can be.)

My venture down this road has been taken because this is a fulfillment of me. I am developing the entirety of my "self", integrating the person I am into a more complete whole. It is an enrichment of The Inner Jz, not an annihilation of her. 
There would be no triumph in doing it any other way.

That River In Egypt...

I was reading spirited one's post, "Research is Dangerous" and found myself giggling at the phrase, "After all... I'm not a masochist (yeah, I still really believe that)."

I laughed because I know exactly what she means. There are certain words my mind just tries to reject. Masochist, bitch, slut... Yet I have no trouble accepting the concept behind them. I sit here, bruised and aching from my latest visit with BG, slipping into luxuriant daydreams that alternate reliving highlights from that scene with dreamy fantasies of the next to come. But, masochist?? Surely not!

Words can be technically correct and yet still not fit the bill. They are slippery. They carry connotations that go beyond simple meaning and often conflict with the definition. Words are one of my very favorite things in the whole world but I struggle with them for those very reasons.

It's why I don't like "bitch". In common useage, it's often dismissive, demeaning, and hostile. When BG purrs that I'm his "sweet, sexy bitch", I both melt and bristle. I know he means no offense but it's hard to get past the baggage that comes with the word. Part of me glows with pride and the rest yelps, "Hey! Wait a minute!"

"Masochist" has similar problems.  The dictionary informs us that masochism is "a sexual perversion characterized by pleasure in being subjected to pain or humiliation" or "pleasure in being abused or dominated : a taste for suffering"
Pleasure in being abused? A taste for suffering? Perverted?!?
Not this girl! I'm the strong, self-reliant, Woman-Hear-Me-Roar.
Those two little words, "or dominated", get lost amid the brain's rant against the connotations of weakness embedded in the rest. The overall impression feels wrong, even if the words are actually apt.

I love to be spanked and bound. Being manipulated and commanded is deeply moving. I revel in the challenge of tricky tasks to be performed in an almost unreasonable time-frame. I enjoy the teasing, tussling, and taming. I absolutely adore having a guy who lets me give as good as I get but still keeps the upper hand. Someone who channels my actions to his will. To hear him say, "good girl", I will happily do just about anything he asks. Kneeling at his feet is coming home.
But isn't there a better word for that than "slut"?

A pulpy novel I read long ago offered, "Your body doesn't know right or wrong, it just knows what it likes." Something to remember. There is a truth inside us that simply IS. We can like it, we can hate it but it's there. It's part of us and ignoring it will not make it go away, just as acknowledging it does not change who we are. To be comfortable in our own skins, we need to accept these truths. Trying to put a label them can be distressing, however. Maybe we should just skip the words.

With World Enough, and Time

I've been feeling a bit caged in and out of sorts. So, I took a little mental vacation. Several months back, author Katie MacAlister blogged:

"I have this mental picture in my head of some day in the future when I have time, when my life is structured so I can move through the day from indulgence to indulgence, one moment sitting out in a lilac bower reading histories of whatever subject interests me at the time, the next sitting with superb posture at an elegant writing desk, responding to the lovely letters readers send me, and still another moment where, in a flurry of flying paint, paper scraps, and miscellaneous ephemera, I produce a stunning piece of art that satisfies me down to my soul."

After reading that, it took me quite a while to emerge from the lilac bower in my mind. But I got thinking. What would I do if I had resources enough to move from indulgence to indulgence?

I think I would:

  have my house fixed up so that maintenance would be at a minimum.

  pay someone to mow my lawn.

  learn woodworking.

  build the gardening workspace of my dreams.

  learn to throw pottery.

  fulfill at least one pipe-dream for each of my loved ones.

  finally take Latin.

  audit a minimum of one literature course a year.

  also have an elegant writing desk. AND an elegant computer desk, on which would reside a top-of-the-line MacBook. I would use them both to write until my fingers hurt and my eyesight blurred.

  see the world.

  get a dog.

  learn ballroom dancing.

What would YOU do?

Journal Musings: Assignment

Jz: in these books, the women always have shaved pussies
Jz: not one of the things I've felt like running out and trying
Scholarly_Professor: No you should do it inside
Scholarly_Professor: I think
Jz: *rolls eyes*
******************************************

BG has embarked on his campaign to get me to Shave It All. I asked exactly what he had in mind. "Nothing beneath the pubic bone, creative trimming on top. Maybe just a short line, like a landing strip."

So I looked in the mirror, trying to picture it and was seized by helpless giggles. All I could think was, "Venus of Willendorf Gets A Brazilian!"

Because I'm me, this naturally led to me grabbing an image of the Venus of Willendorf and Photoshopping assorted (mostly ridiculous) designs onto her pubis. There was the landing strip, the heart, hourglass, a little asymmetric thing I like to call "the sling" - the list goes on and on.

But the silliness is as far as I've gotten.

Here's my issue with it:
I am blind as a bat and a klutz.
I have broken two fingers, one hand, one arm, and the last count on toes was 7 breaks distributed between 3 different digits.
Shards of ping-pong table have been surgically extracted from my leg.
I have exacto-knifed my thigh and drawn blood with a cucumber.

Do I really sound like a good candidate to wield a razor on delicate female flesh to you? An inglorious ending, to be the worlds first self-inflicted female circumcision.

Plus, I don't really get the whole concept. Shaved looks neither better nor worse than the natural state, to me. But, OK. It doesn't bother me enough to fuss, either.
Except- The Principle of the Thing
This appears to be where I've drawn my line in the sand.

BG and I spend almost no time together. His schedule is too erratic. I understand and accept his priorities but I don't enjoy the result. And, while I'm generally receptive to his requirements, I find myself balking at this one. I'm being asked to do something irksome, tedious, challenging, and nerve-wracking, ideally on a daily basis. But I'm to do it without any hope of regular monitoring or check-ins.

I know I'm not supposed to use the word "fair" but there's a disequilibrium there. I don't think it's right to just ask your sub to do something if you're not able to provide follow-through or feedback. If you're going to make the puppet dance,  then at least stick around for the show.

Should BG and I be able to add either frequency or consistency to our meetings, I will happily risk life and limb on a daily basis. For the moment, I consider it a bit  unf____.
I think he must feel the same because I asked if there was wiggle room on this and was told, "for now, yes."
But I'm supposed to start thinking about it...
Here's my start -  :-)

What Ever Happened to Flirting?

This isn't particularly related to this thing we do but I was thinking the other day about the lost art of flirting. I'm not sure if the loss is due to fear of harassment claims, if it's an unfortunate step-child of feminism, or just (my fear) part of the general decline of social mores but, whatever the cause, very few people flirt well anymore. And I for one feel the loss.

I'm not talking about heavy-handed sexual innuendo, or impertinent comments. Flirting is neither sexual nor vulgar. Rather, flirting is a fun exchange that lifts the participant's spirits. Flirting in the proper sense is nothing but a light-hearted expression of appreciation. It's a delicate, nuanced approach that opens the door to an acquaintance, not a bedroom.

Nor does flirting have to be restricted to your gender of choice. One of the most proficient flirts I've ever had the pleasure to watch was an old-school Eastern European woman. Her flirting could charm the pants off almost any man but she was equally adept at using it to make another woman relax and feel welcomed. Flirting was simply her way of saying, "How very nice to see you!"

But, alas, our understanding of social niceties has become muddled.
Even though I'm a tech and a devoted blogger, I blame the internet for much of this.
For one thing, any bonehead can post "advice" and some fool will follow it. My online dating site has posted a list of Top Ten Ways To Flirt With A Man. It includes "Use suggestive language."
First off, NO! That's not flirting. Flirting hints, it doesn't beat you on the head with a 2 x 4.
Secondly, Yuck! Suggestive with a total stranger? I think not. I'll keep my self-respect, thank you very much.

But even more to the point, the distance inherent in online relationships has loosened the strictures of etiquette. Interpersonal skills have gone down the toilet as people spend less and less time looking into the eyes of the person they're addressing. Instead, we invest our time in interactions with people we wouldn't know if we stepped on. (Like us!)
In one way, this is good because that distance shields us and allows us to speak our minds more freely. But in another way, it's quite harmful. We are not vested in the relationship, so there is no fear of embarrassment or censure. In fact, it's easy to forget that the person we're addressing is a living, breathing human with (hello?!) feelings. It fosters a de-humanization that can result in stunning rudeness.
(Never by US, however!)

I am saddened by the decline of civility. But I truly mourn the passing of flirting.