I need to fly - feel the strength of my wings catch and sail on the wind. I want to stretch and climb to heady heights and cry out in freedom. Let me dance with the clouds. Let me soar. Let me be free.
Fly with me. Dance with me. Let us play beneath the heavens and be all we can be. I want to feel the power vibrate through my soul until nothing but the echo of victory fills the air. I want the fire to consume me, to burn through and devour the restlessness that haunts me. Let me be free. Let me be me.
Tuesday, January 31, 2012
Moments...
There are moments when I am nearly undone. With needs and emotions so strong, I am suddenly overwhelmed. lol Considering tears now streak down my cheeks, "undone" likely doesn't capture it. I'm braced and strong against the obvious. I don't and won't let those things get to me. For example, if I need to cum...well, there's friendly lil BOB to help me get myself there and take off the edge. No, it's the tiny fucking shreds that catch me off guard, slam open the door, and expose the deep sliver of emptiness that I can't seem to fill with the rest of life. Well...that damn gaping hole just brings me to my knees. Augh!
Then I dry my eyes. I catch my breath. And I accept the pain. There's no denying it. I can't push it away. I have to process it and absorb it. Most of the time it's locked quietly behind the door deep behind my masks. Right now, all the lights are on, and I'm faced with that stark, hollow chasm. Yep...there it is. It sucks. lol A deep breath. I can't change the past, and I can't set the future. Here and now is what I have. I remind myself that while I could go out and temporarily distract myself with silliness, that silliness lacks substance and could never fulfill my needs.
So now I turn my back, shut off the lights, and once again lock the door. There's nothing to do but be patient. For more. For something real. For that beautiful, mysterious connection that's so worth the wait.
~DominaKat
Then I dry my eyes. I catch my breath. And I accept the pain. There's no denying it. I can't push it away. I have to process it and absorb it. Most of the time it's locked quietly behind the door deep behind my masks. Right now, all the lights are on, and I'm faced with that stark, hollow chasm. Yep...there it is. It sucks. lol A deep breath. I can't change the past, and I can't set the future. Here and now is what I have. I remind myself that while I could go out and temporarily distract myself with silliness, that silliness lacks substance and could never fulfill my needs.
So now I turn my back, shut off the lights, and once again lock the door. There's nothing to do but be patient. For more. For something real. For that beautiful, mysterious connection that's so worth the wait.
~DominaKat
Thursday, January 26, 2012
Sweet Pet - Part I
Bound.
Helpless.
His sweet pet.
I was allowed no words.
My only direction to accept.
My wrists held tightly to the headboard.
My legs untethered.
Another tease.
Freedom.
Yet none.
His fingers toyed lightly with my nipples.
Only my aching nipples.
A tap.
A touch.
A scrap.
Harder and harder they puckered for him.
Fat meat begging.
So ripe.
He tugged gently at my rings.
First one.
Then the other.
I gasped.
My back arched.
Heat flooded my cunt.
A tap.
A touch.
A scrap.
A lick.
Long and slow.
Hot and wet.
My nipple throbbed.
Until the pain of it.
Made me whimper.
His fingers tightened on one.
As his mouth sucked from the other.
I was coming undone.
The simplest of touches.
So often ignored.
Yet he took me under.
My thighs rubbed together.
Slick with my juice.
He bathed my nipples with his tongue.
And nursed from my heaving breasts.
I basked in his attentions.
A nip.
A bite.
The whip of his wicked tongue.
A rub.
A pinch.
The slap of his firm hand.
I panted.
I groaned.
My words bitten on my tongue.
I begged with my body.
Withering.
Needy.
So close.
I was mindless.
Simply his sweet pet.
To do with as he chose.
To obey his commands.
"Spread your thighs wide."
"I want to watch."
I surrendered to his will.
My tender clit swollen with need.
My pussy drenched in my desperate desire.
Both hands molding my tits.
Forcing me into the bed.
His thumbs flicked the pebbled points.
"Let go sweet pet."
"Show me your waterfall."
His fingers fastened swiftly.
Tightly.
Latching to my rosy points.
The heady pain.
My undoing.
I surrendered.
My long, low growl.
My hips rising off the bed.
My orgasm poured like an arch.
"Fuck yes, Kitten."
He rolled them in his grip.
Another wave ran through me.
A gushing stream from my womb.
He released me.
I caught my breath.
Then his groan filled the room.
The first searing splash to my breast.
My own desire ensnared immediately in his.
I arched to receive his seed.
Another load flung across my chest.
Ripped another orgasm unmercifully from my core.
As his cream branded me.
I was lost.
In the storm he created.
As him milked himself over me.
When his hands cupped my tits.
He massaged his cum into my skin.
And with a whisper, his promise to me.
"We're not done yet, my sweet pet."
~A Naughty Lil Kitten
Helpless.
His sweet pet.
I was allowed no words.
My only direction to accept.
My wrists held tightly to the headboard.
My legs untethered.
Another tease.
Freedom.
Yet none.
His fingers toyed lightly with my nipples.
Only my aching nipples.
A tap.
A touch.
A scrap.
Harder and harder they puckered for him.
Fat meat begging.
So ripe.
He tugged gently at my rings.
First one.
Then the other.
I gasped.
My back arched.
Heat flooded my cunt.
A tap.
A touch.
A scrap.
A lick.
Long and slow.
Hot and wet.
My nipple throbbed.
Until the pain of it.
Made me whimper.
His fingers tightened on one.
As his mouth sucked from the other.
I was coming undone.
The simplest of touches.
So often ignored.
Yet he took me under.
My thighs rubbed together.
Slick with my juice.
He bathed my nipples with his tongue.
And nursed from my heaving breasts.
I basked in his attentions.
A nip.
A bite.
The whip of his wicked tongue.
A rub.
A pinch.
The slap of his firm hand.
I panted.
I groaned.
My words bitten on my tongue.
I begged with my body.
Withering.
Needy.
So close.
I was mindless.
Simply his sweet pet.
To do with as he chose.
To obey his commands.
"Spread your thighs wide."
"I want to watch."
I surrendered to his will.
My tender clit swollen with need.
My pussy drenched in my desperate desire.
Both hands molding my tits.
Forcing me into the bed.
His thumbs flicked the pebbled points.
"Let go sweet pet."
"Show me your waterfall."
His fingers fastened swiftly.
Tightly.
Latching to my rosy points.
The heady pain.
My undoing.
I surrendered.
My long, low growl.
My hips rising off the bed.
My orgasm poured like an arch.
"Fuck yes, Kitten."
He rolled them in his grip.
Another wave ran through me.
A gushing stream from my womb.
He released me.
I caught my breath.
Then his groan filled the room.
The first searing splash to my breast.
My own desire ensnared immediately in his.
I arched to receive his seed.
Another load flung across my chest.
Ripped another orgasm unmercifully from my core.
As his cream branded me.
I was lost.
In the storm he created.
As him milked himself over me.
When his hands cupped my tits.
He massaged his cum into my skin.
And with a whisper, his promise to me.
"We're not done yet, my sweet pet."
~A Naughty Lil Kitten
Monday, January 23, 2012
Which One?
Sometimes a kitten needs a toy to bat around and play with to keep from being bored.
Sometimes she needs a warm lap to curl up in and be stroked until she purrs.
The question is...which one do you want to be?
~DominaKat
Sometimes she needs a warm lap to curl up in and be stroked until she purrs.
The question is...which one do you want to be?
~DominaKat
Tuesday, January 17, 2012
The Elusive Kink Quiz
Finally ran across the silly quiz (or one of them) that everyone posts on their profile. My absolute non-scientific, yet seemly "pretty close the the mark" results...
Switch 96%
Experimental 93%
Exhibitionist / Voyeur 82%
Bondage 75%
Masochist 64%
Sadist 54%
Dominant 54%
Degradation Lover 50%
Submissive 46%
Vanilla 18%
If you haven't found it yet either: Go here...
Ciao...
~Kat
Switch 96%
Experimental 93%
Exhibitionist / Voyeur 82%
Bondage 75%
Masochist 64%
Sadist 54%
Dominant 54%
Degradation Lover 50%
Submissive 46%
Vanilla 18%
If you haven't found it yet either: Go here...
Ciao...
~Kat
Not a Whore
How is it that no matter what non-sexual relationship I have with a man, I am seen as a threat to the woman in his life? Really? I'm not a whore fucking any man that happens to be in my vicinity. In fact it's been a little over six months since I've been fucked, sucked dick, felt up, or even kissed.
Yes, at my core I want to be A man's whore, but not ANY man's. I don't toss my pussy out like candy at a parade. The fact that we work together or are in business together is NOT a hidden smoke shield for him crawling between my thick thighs.
Nor is my sexuality easily shared with just anyone that pays me attention or finds me desirable. I find it a bit rude that you would presume so. One, most men can't cope with - let alone satisfy - my sexual needs and desires. Two, they can't keep up mentally. Yes, I'm an intellectual snob. Three, they aren't about shit, so why would I want that dead weight dragging at me? Or four, there are priorities between us that are much more important that fucking our brains out.
Have I broken these rules on occasion? Oh hell, yeah. But I've learned from those trainwrecks. My attempts to be more adaptive, understanding and settle for less only turned out to be a waste of time, energy, and effort. I have no desire to repeat my past poor choices to ignore a lack of intellect or a lack of character. I know what I want and what I deserve, and that kind of connection requires more than simply finding a single good quality to build from.
To the women getting worked up over my presence, all this means is that even if your man came at me hard...it's not happening. Would he thoroughly enjoy me sucking up and down his hard dick like a greedy, nasty whore. Fuck yeah, but that doesn't mean I choked on it this afternoon and swallowed every hot drop of his creamy nut. For whatever reason(s), we are what we are and that's the extent of things. If you're worried about where his mind or his dick might be, I suggest you get on your knees and make damn sure your man is satisfied to the point where he's so drained, he can't get hard. Then maybe you'll feel better about yourself and not worry about my existence.
In the meantime, I'm perfectly content to wait for what I want for to come my way. I've gone three years without sex before because I couldn't find what I was looking for. Trust me, I'm able to resist falling in your man's lap and riding him until he's begging me to let him rest or we're both well sated.
Errrrrrr....
~DominaKat
Yes, at my core I want to be A man's whore, but not ANY man's. I don't toss my pussy out like candy at a parade. The fact that we work together or are in business together is NOT a hidden smoke shield for him crawling between my thick thighs.
Nor is my sexuality easily shared with just anyone that pays me attention or finds me desirable. I find it a bit rude that you would presume so. One, most men can't cope with - let alone satisfy - my sexual needs and desires. Two, they can't keep up mentally. Yes, I'm an intellectual snob. Three, they aren't about shit, so why would I want that dead weight dragging at me? Or four, there are priorities between us that are much more important that fucking our brains out.
Have I broken these rules on occasion? Oh hell, yeah. But I've learned from those trainwrecks. My attempts to be more adaptive, understanding and settle for less only turned out to be a waste of time, energy, and effort. I have no desire to repeat my past poor choices to ignore a lack of intellect or a lack of character. I know what I want and what I deserve, and that kind of connection requires more than simply finding a single good quality to build from.
To the women getting worked up over my presence, all this means is that even if your man came at me hard...it's not happening. Would he thoroughly enjoy me sucking up and down his hard dick like a greedy, nasty whore. Fuck yeah, but that doesn't mean I choked on it this afternoon and swallowed every hot drop of his creamy nut. For whatever reason(s), we are what we are and that's the extent of things. If you're worried about where his mind or his dick might be, I suggest you get on your knees and make damn sure your man is satisfied to the point where he's so drained, he can't get hard. Then maybe you'll feel better about yourself and not worry about my existence.
In the meantime, I'm perfectly content to wait for what I want for to come my way. I've gone three years without sex before because I couldn't find what I was looking for. Trust me, I'm able to resist falling in your man's lap and riding him until he's begging me to let him rest or we're both well sated.
Errrrrrr....
~DominaKat
Wednesday, January 11, 2012
Things I Don't Get
So over the course of my lifestyle and FetLife involvement, I've discovered that there are a number of things that I really just don't get.
Counting.
When I'm asked directly how many men I've fucked, yes...I can go through, write the names down, and count. But this isn't a number I have on a billboard constantly flashing in my memory bank. And no, it's definitely not because the number is so large that I can't keep track. By some people's standards, I'm quite low given that I'm nearly 40 and been sexually active for about 24 years. That tends to happen since I can restrain myself and be monogamous as well as be alone and not require a member of the opposite sex and/or sex to satisfy or stroke my ego. Yes...I know that sounds a bit judgmental for a woman comfortable with an open relationship and sharing her lovers. But the practice of numbered conquests repulses me.
When my lover in my last long-term relationship put a number on me, quite honestly...I almost threw up. I was in the drive thru at McDonald's. Suddenly my absolute favorite mocha held zero appeal. Part of me wanted to cry. I was some number on a list in his head. I deserved better than that.
I simply struggle to understand what exactly I'm getting that's so damn special if 200 (No, that wasn't my number.) other people have sampled, basked in it, wallowed with it. And if you are comfortable passing it out so freely, then how it is that I'm supposedly so meaningful. But maybe that's the mistake I make...there's a certain undefinable point where what I'm getting isn't special and to that kind of person, I am easily and completely replaceable because some other wet hole will do just fine.
For me, none of the men I've shared my body with are a number, except of course my first which is well...my first. Good or bad each of my previous lovers has a name and for better or worse had a reason why they were in my life in that moment between my thighs. Then again, I tend to think of the opposite sex as human beings and not cattle, but hey...that's just me being difficult I suppose.
The other thing I don't get...
Black Men Being a Genuine Fetish.
First let's define a fetish.
Do I prefer black men? In general yes, because I prefer strong, agressive men and those traits tend to be more apparent in the black culture. I'm a strong, agressive woman and seek a dominant male that can match my personality. Do I date or fuck other races? Yes, if there is chemistry between us. Just as I fuck a black man if there's chemistry between us. The other key preference factor is that in general, I don't do it for white boys. I'm tall. I'm thick. In my experience, black men will check me over one, twice, and more if there's time. White boys will look at me and consider me fat and a threat to their egos. My stance is that if I'm a threat to your ego, your ego isn't strong enough for me in the first place. lol
The point for me is the color of a man's skin does not define our compatibility or my satisfaction. The color of his skin does not put him in a different category that I keep track of separately and wear like a badge of honor. I don't count blued-eyed men. I don't count blondes. However, I do have categories like "douche bag/asshole," "nice guy," "fool," and for a very select few..."Mmmmm...Wow! ~sigh~" ;-)
I just can't think of a black man in the same terms as I can flogging, nipple clamps, being spanked, hair pulling, choking on a nice thick well-hung dick, etc. Those are activities. A lover is a person, not a fetish. My mind doesn't work that way. A man isn't an automatic "will do" just because his skin is darker than mine, and it makes me incredibly sad to realize that others think this way about another human being.
Maybe this all simply boils down to my inability to "objectify" people to nothing but numbers or a color. ~shrug~ However, this is my opinion on my blog which outlines how I prefer to view and approach people, relationships, kink, and life. For everyone out there with a specific need and approach, there's someone out there that has the balance to that. Am I twisted? Yep. I'm looking for another twisted individual that blends well with my angles and curves. So I understand that for every "Count-er" or "Black-Men-fetishizer" there's I'm sure a "Countee" or a "Want Me Only Because I'm Black" man out there for them. May they find each other and live happily ever after. Tra-la-la.
I'll wait for something/someone with a bit more depth and as a new friend of mine put it "substance."
~Domina
Counting.
When I'm asked directly how many men I've fucked, yes...I can go through, write the names down, and count. But this isn't a number I have on a billboard constantly flashing in my memory bank. And no, it's definitely not because the number is so large that I can't keep track. By some people's standards, I'm quite low given that I'm nearly 40 and been sexually active for about 24 years. That tends to happen since I can restrain myself and be monogamous as well as be alone and not require a member of the opposite sex and/or sex to satisfy or stroke my ego. Yes...I know that sounds a bit judgmental for a woman comfortable with an open relationship and sharing her lovers. But the practice of numbered conquests repulses me.
When my lover in my last long-term relationship put a number on me, quite honestly...I almost threw up. I was in the drive thru at McDonald's. Suddenly my absolute favorite mocha held zero appeal. Part of me wanted to cry. I was some number on a list in his head. I deserved better than that.
I simply struggle to understand what exactly I'm getting that's so damn special if 200 (No, that wasn't my number.) other people have sampled, basked in it, wallowed with it. And if you are comfortable passing it out so freely, then how it is that I'm supposedly so meaningful. But maybe that's the mistake I make...there's a certain undefinable point where what I'm getting isn't special and to that kind of person, I am easily and completely replaceable because some other wet hole will do just fine.
For me, none of the men I've shared my body with are a number, except of course my first which is well...my first. Good or bad each of my previous lovers has a name and for better or worse had a reason why they were in my life in that moment between my thighs. Then again, I tend to think of the opposite sex as human beings and not cattle, but hey...that's just me being difficult I suppose.
The other thing I don't get...
Black Men Being a Genuine Fetish.
First let's define a fetish.
Fetish: "A course of action to which one has an excessive and irrational commitment."I'm not venting about a like/preference here. I'm bitching about the "Oh I Have to Have Him Because I Love Black Men" mentality.
Do I prefer black men? In general yes, because I prefer strong, agressive men and those traits tend to be more apparent in the black culture. I'm a strong, agressive woman and seek a dominant male that can match my personality. Do I date or fuck other races? Yes, if there is chemistry between us. Just as I fuck a black man if there's chemistry between us. The other key preference factor is that in general, I don't do it for white boys. I'm tall. I'm thick. In my experience, black men will check me over one, twice, and more if there's time. White boys will look at me and consider me fat and a threat to their egos. My stance is that if I'm a threat to your ego, your ego isn't strong enough for me in the first place. lol
The point for me is the color of a man's skin does not define our compatibility or my satisfaction. The color of his skin does not put him in a different category that I keep track of separately and wear like a badge of honor. I don't count blued-eyed men. I don't count blondes. However, I do have categories like "douche bag/asshole," "nice guy," "fool," and for a very select few..."Mmmmm...Wow! ~sigh~" ;-)
I just can't think of a black man in the same terms as I can flogging, nipple clamps, being spanked, hair pulling, choking on a nice thick well-hung dick, etc. Those are activities. A lover is a person, not a fetish. My mind doesn't work that way. A man isn't an automatic "will do" just because his skin is darker than mine, and it makes me incredibly sad to realize that others think this way about another human being.
Maybe this all simply boils down to my inability to "objectify" people to nothing but numbers or a color. ~shrug~ However, this is my opinion on my blog which outlines how I prefer to view and approach people, relationships, kink, and life. For everyone out there with a specific need and approach, there's someone out there that has the balance to that. Am I twisted? Yep. I'm looking for another twisted individual that blends well with my angles and curves. So I understand that for every "Count-er" or "Black-Men-fetishizer" there's I'm sure a "Countee" or a "Want Me Only Because I'm Black" man out there for them. May they find each other and live happily ever after. Tra-la-la.
I'll wait for something/someone with a bit more depth and as a new friend of mine put it "substance."
~Domina
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