Balancing the needs of kink

Kink doesn't lose any traction over time. It only gets stronger and more demanding.`These desires can overwhelm the mind, take up more and more time until there can come a moment when one registers that perhaps one is out of balance; perhaps one should try hard to think about something else.

When in the midst of one's kink, either satiated, or with a lustful appetite for more expression of the kink, there's a sense that one probably should leave the table for one's own health. Yet, there is more meat on the bone, more trifle, Camembert cheese; more chocolates in the box. And, these banquets don't happen every day. Why not a little more?

It can happen to one person or both; that moment when one simply has to stop ingesting; simply has to stop partaking of the delicious treats. That's not a bad thing. It's an acknowledgement to oneself to go a little slower perhaps; to acknowledge that we can be in the grip at times of our own lust.

I don't advocate and am too far into these processes to ever again STOP what I know does me a heap of good. Kink, for me, doesn't work like that. My needs are my needs and they don't go away for very good reasons. It's not some game for me but rather a real need for my body to experience what it does on a daily basis. It's a treatment of sorts and if you take away the treatments I go down hill very fast.

However, it's no bad thing to redistribute daily life every so often. It's been cold and dull here for far too long but the sun has begun to make an appearance late in the day these evenings and it prompts me to get out and about more; to spread my creativity across various pursuits as a form of personal expression; to interact with creative sorts on various non digital platforms and to enjoy my life in every way.

I don't mean that I should suddenly make a bunch of decisions to counteract my desire to make no decisions at all. That would not work. I need my 'bimbo' time. I adore it too much. What I mean is that the longing for the bimbo state can have me going too slow; leave me in a rather catatonic state where the longing for it becomes too much. The longing can hurt me and be counter-productive and if there's no real solution presenting itself in my life right now as to consistency of that experience, then there comes a time when I need to turn the longing off, for my own sake.

The kink won't, and need not go away. It's here to stay. I have no power to alter this nor do I wish to do so. Yet, there is so much of life to explore and it's time I did just a little more of that. It's all about balance - simply redistributing the thoughts patterns so that they are more in line with what works ideally. The formula for that is within the mind of each kinkster, according to the limitations and precinct of one's life as led with other people. Following one's intuition is really the only way to reconstruct balance.

Restoration

Cycles being what they are, the desire to write here happened yesterday. My husband was itching to tell me things yesterday afternoon but seeing how hard I was trying to reconstruct the previous hour of my life on paper he left me to my own devices.

This morning when I woke up I had the strong desire to listen to Paul McCartney sing 'Blackbird' and on one of the clips he explained that his inspiration for the song was that girls are sometimes called 'birds'. Ha! While I knew that, I hadn't actually associated that in my thoughts about the song or my mental images during the meditation spoken of in the previous post. I have to say if you allow your mind to just rest and at other times such as walking or listening to music to simply wander where it will, it's so interesting the linkages one can make. If you soften into the process and are in no way impatient, the truth will come to you.

Who we are, what we stand for, what we need and what is right for us is deeply embedded and encoded in our psyche. First, you have to know yourself very well and be scrupulously honest with yourself. I also think you have to ponder important questions. To whom do you belong? From where do you get your sustenance? Are the steps you are taking today leading you to the right place tomorrow? We live in the now, for sure, with no certainty of tomorrow and yesterday gone, but it is now that leads to the next moment. Every decision needs to be intentional. One can't leave the conscience behind. One can't have an empty head when in the process of decision making. This much, I have learned.

Desperation is a nasty state of mind that leads to no good thing. At the same time, to admit that one is desperate is good. I did that. My mind that is capable of intelligent thought knew that my husband had deadlines and very critical deadlines at that, but there was no other choice. I was, quite simply, desperate. I expressed my desperation. It makes me smile to say that his associate on the other end of the phone was having a similar experience with his girl. We both wanted to get laid and stuff the deadline! Like the good men that they are, they put down tools for an hour or so and took their women to bed; played with them and made life sweet again; returned to their conference call and got on with the job at hand.

I noticed the spring in my step immediately. My daughter and I went to see a fabulous one woman performance last night and I noticed how alive I felt. We were driving into the carpark when a man in his car heading out held out a ticket for me. "It's good until 1 am," he said as I took it out of his hand. "You are very kind," I said to him and we both smiled wide. We picked up a Thai meal before the show and I told the woman how delicious it was. She was happy and smiled back widely too. At the show, we needed to sit separately and I immediately engaged the lovely young man beside me. I was in really good form. I sorta wanted to spread the joy I felt around.

The show was great! She's a woman from NYC who has worked in Harlem in challenged school districts and the script is outstanding; her acting sublime. So, we stopped off in a fancy wine bar on the way to the car and had a lovely talk together, engaging as best we could the darling young man serving us, recently come to Australia and with very little English as yet.

The sex for me was restorative; to be loved; touched; used. This is a requirement of mine.

Coming home

So here I am in my pretty pink dress, lace cardigan, heeled sandals, gold and pearl jewellery. I've been to a lovely lunch and chatted away amicably with many people, listened to lovely music, had some pleasant wine and food. It was all very, very nice.

And, what did I do when I came home?

Well, I sat at my desk and opened up my tumblr account and found this pikki, which immediately relaxed me; which immediately made me feel comfortable; complete; which allowed me to commune with myself.

These are the cold, hard facts. To be reduced is to feel like I have come home.

Restraint and service

There is a lot happening when I sleep. Rare is the night when I sleep like a baby, blissfully unaware of my self; awakening from a state of nothingness. I absolutely love it when it happens, usually when  I am desperate for an eight hour sleep, but on a day by day basis it is not meant to be.

The night before last my husband tied my wrists together and my ankles as well. I loved every moment of it but I suspect the minutes I was fast asleep and unaware of the ropes were few. I tossed and turned looking for the best position, eventually deciding that lying on my back was the way to go. By early morning I was conscious of the fact that my hands were in the prayer position, palms face to face, and the soles of my feet were also together with my knees spread. I was aware of thinking how marvellous I thought this new position; a sort of meditative position on one's back. I could feel my sexuality simmering away; like I was a slow cooker.

At times like this, my mind turns to chastity belts. I imagine what it must be like to be told one cannot touch oneself, or to be shown that one has no hope of touching oneself by being put into a chastity belt. In my thoughts I can take this several steps further by imagining that I'm under the control of people whose business it is to train me to accept these constraints on my liberty. Constraining my sexual liberties in reality is something I can't really come to terms with but in the night I often go to the thought; almost as if it were the last frontier for me; the constraint that  I must endure because I can't endure it.

My sexuality was given free reign later that same morning although my liberty was still in question: holes filled and gagged, eyes covered, hands tied to bed posts. That evening, I constrained myself in my usual way expecting that the plug would co-operate and leave me to sleep. But, it was not to be. My mind was too active, not with worry but with being taken and used in various ways; with men (and women, what's more) wanting to use paddles and canes on my rump. I squeezed and squeezed in the hope of settling the situation down, but in vain.

Eventually, and it's not a thing I do lightly because I like to imagine that I am in a chastity belt and have no choice over the matter at all, I woke myself up properly and went and removed the object causing me the sleeplessness. Almost immediately I think, I went into a deep sleep, waking only when  I heard the garage door open downstairs and registering that my daughter was leaving for school.

This notion in my mind of constraint and use sit side by side one another. I like the idea that I must show patience and forbearance and I like the idea that I am a waiting object. When the use takes place I like the idea that I am object designed for use and hungry for use.

Along with the interplay of restraint and use is the interplay of a mind filled with the desire for use (but the inability to do anything about it) and the mind that is emptied of all matters but sensations when use takes place. Whether I'm locked away in one fashion or another or abundantly used, it's all service (for me!). Shhhhhhhh.

Dirty, dark fantasies

I've been doing a yoga breathing workshop all week that requires me to get up each morning at least 2 hours earlier than I normally do. Since I can't go to bed all that much earlier than I usually do, I am running on a deficit of about 10 hours sleep for the week.  It all must sound like torture but I've really wanted to do this and I have had some outstanding bursts of energy and clear thinking along the way. Today, I mentioned it to my regular yoga teacher and she said she did the breathing for 6 months and kept a journal. Apparently, after a few weeks into the breathing she couldn't bear the smell of alcohol or sugar. Her body was insisting on all things clean.

I can't say that sort of effect has kicked in with me, although I haven't even contemplated a glass of wine this week. However, that's not all that unusual for me and just now I have had a few blocks of dark chocolate, my first sugar for the week after an afternoon nap. I'm not entirely pure yet. Quite the contrary has occurred, I am sorry to say.

What I have noticed is that the sexual thoughts are running amuck; very intense, constant and with no end. I fell asleep thinking them and I awoke thinking them. Fundamentally, it is like a pornographic channel running in my head and nobody can find the controller to turn it off. I hesitate to talk about them and yet I feel a need to expunge them somewhat. If I can't talk about them here, then where? I rather doubt the ancient yogis would approve. I don't think this is the sort of benefits they had in mind at all but it is what it is, and here it is...

I'm in a big room. It's quite grand: think Eyes Wide Shut and that's about right. We've been blindfolded, about a dozen of us. We're naked. We've been told to kneel with our legs under us, so that we can pout our backsides and present our holes. (The word present is an extraordinary turn on for me always.)  Of course, our breasts (the men in charge call them our titties) flop on the wooden floor and we are told to hold our mouth cunts open, as if ready to be fucked. We form a circle and that means that when the man who is looking for a plaything  comes to see us, he can see all the holes easily. There are mirrors all over the walls, you see. There is  no place to hide.

The man we know is showing us off, much as a man might show off his horse to a potential owner,  talking up our good points, encouraging the stranger to notice various aspects of our bodies; broad hips here, a wide ass there, a particularly slutty hole there, and the unknown man is inspecting us closely. He looks more than touches the merchandise but he has stopped by me and is asking the man a question. He wants to know what size anal plug I am using at this time. The man goes to a cupboard and produces a plug of the relevant size and this seems to prompt him to want to inspect more closely.

I can feel his slightly cold hands on my buttocks. (As he requested, we've all been well warmed with a leather paddle so any slight coldness was going to be noticed by any of us.) Now, he's stretching my buttocks apart to look at the slutty hole, running his hands over and in my pussy cunt as well. Modesty would like me to be able to say that my pride is incensed by this but it just wouldn't be the truth. I am wet with anticipation of what this man may do to me should he choose me and the touch of his fingers is divine. I am virtually organismic already.

He makes his decision abruptly and within a moment I am hoisted onto a bench and told to rest in the same way as on the floor; kneeling with my legs under me and all holes accessible. Quickly and firmly I am tied to the bench so that any hope I might have of escaping is completely gone. (As if I would...)

The bench is the perfect height so that when the man releases his cock from his pants it can be easily and immediately placed at the entrance of my ass cunt. (The men use these words repeatedly.) As I feel his cock about to penetrate me he reminds me that I an nothing more than his play thing; his toy; just a hole. If this is meant to insult me or incense me, the ploy has backfired because I don't feel any disagreement in my mind. That is indeed what I am. I've been trained to know my purpose.

He enters me and I gasp with shock. He pulls out of me repeatedly only to thrust again and eventually he rhythmically fucks me, seemingly fucking deeper and deeper into my hole. With each thrust my mind and my body is disappearing into a space; a deep, dark hole of pleasure. The sensations are primal; earthy. I feel that my pussy cunt has expanded to be three times it size and from where the orgasms come it is hard to detect. Is it felt in the ass cunt or the pussy cunt or is the overwhelming pleasure coming from a place and a space so unidentifiable that I  no longer exist and have been carried away to some sort of orgasmic heavenly bliss?

My loud moans and groans are no longer wanted and it seems that the man riding me has asked the other man to fill my mouth cunt with his cock to keep me quiet. I accept the gift of his cock with lusty acceptance and I can only hope that this attention will go on and on; that they will not tire or desire to climax too soon.

Eventually, they must and do. I feel the cum filling my two holes and it fills me with satisfaction. This is, after all, the purpose of the two holes. (Here comes the squirmish part...) One of the men retrieve from the cupboard a jug and my ass cunt is milked of cum, leaving enough inside so that when they fill it with a large plug the rest of the cum will leak down my legs for the rest of the evening. (Our training has demanded that our holes are always scrupulously clean and now I understand why this is so.)

I am untied and made to sit on the hard, wooden stool and to place my hands behind my head. Of course, this leaves my breasts free to be tortured and nasty, tight nipple clips now bite at my nipples. It is just more containment for the plaything. It bites to be sure but there is pleasure in the pain; their devilment is her aphrodisiac. (I'm no longer an I. I'm just she at best; more like it, in fact.)

Just as she is about to pass out in a dreamy sort of head space that is unquantifiable they remove the clips. She screams and her mouth is immediately covered with a man's big hand until the desire to scream passes and she is passive; still. The stranger pats her on the head and tells that she has been a good fuck toy, a very pleasurable doll. She has done well. "Good doll," he coos.

This is enough for her. (Who, in fact, is using who here...?). She is returned to the circle and content in her child pose again, she drifts into a near slumber, eternally grateful that to day it was her turn to be used.