And finally, I remember damp leaves and fine silty mud slowly coating my hair, back, arse and thighs. And his knees.
Today I was able to attend a Rope and Drawing session at Splinter in Melbourne. We were fortunate to have Rigger Extatis and Model Jarrod working for us. It was the first time I’ve had the opportunity to draw Shibari up close and personal and I had a brilliant day. My artists eye and my kink sensibilities both had a fabulous workout. While I was trying to work out how to draw a pose, I was also looking at the emotions, and positions and the rope placement thinking, OMG I have to do that to someone /experience that done to me – soon…
I have maybe half a dozen books of (mostly) short stories (including Delta of Venus by Anais Nin) at least half of which involve tentacles or beasts of some sort. While i am no “beauty” I do find myself frequently attracted to the “beast”. I’m enough of a romantic, and I’ve been immersed sufficiently in myth over many years to get off on these sorts of ideas, both in my erotic reading and sometimes, to my detriment, in real life.
His arms are bound behind him, a little distance apart, in a position I learned at the recent workshop. The knots are imperfect, but the ties are firm. I can stand behind him, press against him should I choose to do so, without impediment.
Knowing damn well its not tentacles I’m craving
but the lens flare of your attention
Our sporadic conversation dwindled, died, deepened into energised silence, punctuated by faint sounds. The hissing murmur of the gaslight, the dull swishing rhythm of the brush, the liquid clench as one or both of us swallowed. Time and space narrowed as the brush passed repeatedly across his head, and the faint perfume of his scalp and my arousal gradually intermingled with the smell of wood smoke.
her skin felt hot despite the chill in the air, and she thought she detected a faint scent of flowers and awakening earth. Without thinking Flora succumbed to the urge to press herself against the cold window pane. The firm contact of her breast against the chilly glass sent a frisson of delight through her…
I wait until he gets close before I make my move. “Excuse me” I ask in a hesitant voice “Can you help me please?” My voice sounds higher pitched than normal, anxious, uncertain. The young man, despite his pouty bad boy looks is well enough trained in customer courtesy. He slows to a halt. “Certainly ma’am, how can I help you?” #MasturbationMonday
I’ve been thinking about relationships between visual and media based artists and their models a lot lately. In the process I’ve also revisited the idea of interactions between artists and their muses as a somewhat tortured (often unconsummated) power dynamic (I write my best poetry when in this situation), and also begun to consider the idea of artists and their erotic/kinky collaborators. How do you collaborate?
the shock of a cascade of indigo satin down my body, catching at my nipples, smoothing the mound of belly, moulding my arse as it trickles to my calves. Love too how it lifts with my rising chest, thin straps marking soft arms as they are pinned above me.