We can’t figure out how our nasty horny hostile teenage boy could top a good trance induction, so Janet offers to change the cast of characters to a corrupt guru with a naive disciple. We both like this — trance induction for betrayal, sounds like a hot scene to me.
We actually discussed quite a few options before we came up with this one. Later on, as you’ll see, the discussion paid off — it turned out that what we were doing was defining a circle of possibilities. I enjoy playing the wicked betrayer, too... and once Dossie gets tranced out and warmed up, she can usually follow me almost anywhere I want to go.
So Janet sets out the toys she wants while I get dressed in a chiffon sarong and velvet cleavage top with dragons — girly tantra wear. We put five hours of Hildegard von Bingen on the stereo — 12th-century intense monastic music is all about flagellation. The titles include “Canticles of Ecstasy” and “Canticles of the Blood. “So imagine this long slow exquisite singing throughout the scene.
We start out sitting on pillows in front of the fireplace, me on Janet’s lap with my legs wrapped around her, and we go into the breath. Kundalini rises very quickly, and I can feel the intense connection between us as Janet gazes into my eyes. It feels like she’s raping my soul, or maybe that my soul is a butterfly mounted for display. We undulate with the breath and get very turned on, until Janet is lifting me and slamming our crotches together, still with the breath coming faster and faster, and both of us are shouting — it sounds like Janet has an orgasm in there. Feels like I’m sitting on her dick, a strong illusion even though she hasn’t put hers on yet.
I often grow a dick when I do undulations, and if Dossie’s sitting on my lap it’s pretty much a sure thing. And with me running that hot frustrated energy, let me tell you, it’s a BIG dick.
For a while she controls my breath, first by putting her hand over my mouth to tell me when I can breathe and when I shouldn’t — I get quite dizzy in the process. She initiates some mouth-to-mouth breathing, back and forth between her life and mine, careful to breathe in some extra air so we don’t deplete the breath we are sharing. This feels intimate, and I get an image that she is taking me over by breathing herself into me. I’m definitely trancing now, and she’s holding me up and pushing me at the heart, back and forth to the breath, as though I’m on a swing that she controls.
The “guru” fantasy becomes very strong for me here. I’m teaching her the breathing by doing the breathing for both of us — this in spite of the fact that in real life she is far more experienced with these breathing techniques than I. And then an idea comes to me — a way to build a bridge to bondage by integrating rope as part of the breathing practice...
She takes some silky thick black rope and winds it around my chest and arms, tightening to constrict the breath, my arms bound to my sides, my chest wound around tightly. As we continue the breath I get dizzier and higher and more distant from myself, as if Janet is operating my body. She uses the rope on my chest as a handle to throw me far back and then pull me back up before my head hits the floor — I trust her with this. She is growling now, and I can see her evil man top is in control. This is a little scary, which is exciting.
The “evil man top” is a familiar character to both of us; he shows up in various ways when I play with Dossie — all very vicious, all very precious to both of us. This betraying guru-fellow is a new incarnation of an old friend. I am punching her hard in the chest to throw her backward, grabbing the knot of ropes at her heart chakra just before she hits the floor, yanking her back toward me in an embrace, meeting her mouth with mine... then doing it again... and again...
Then she wraps a long satiny rope around each of my wrists, leaving a length of rope hanging like a leash, on each one. She pulls my hands around her back, holding the ropes in front of her, and we breathe with me attached to her like a monkey baby. Kundalini comes up and up, and out the top of my head. I can feel our inner snakes twining together above us, my snake reaching out to hers when she puts her forehead against mine and stares into me, my snake licks her third eye, she is staring from her soul, and the arousal has us shouting and thrusting. I am sitting on her dick in a violent and out-of-control upheaving — out of my control, anyway. We are happily gasping and bellowing, me hissing and spitting.
All of this takes much longer to do than to describe. With each change in position, each new bit of bondage, we bring the breath back up, raise the snake, and explore each new form, physically, emotionally, spiritually, as far as we can go with it.
In the last position, she pushes my arms behind my back and ties the leashes around in front of me, so as we breathe and rock, I am completely dependent on her to keep from falling over. I can feel the heat rising in my cunt right now while I’m writing about this.
I am panting, out of breath, and my arms are tiring... and I’m still itching to make her scream and cry. It’s just the kind of girl I am, I guess.
When we have exhausted all the possibilities of this configuration, Janet helps me move to the couch and places me over her lap for the spanking, pillows arranged to protect each of our rather fragile necks. She starts with a sensual spanking, while I get comfortable in the position and sink into the sexiness of it. Then she tells me she wants to hear me scream. That scares me a little — I know she knows how — and I know that means she will push me beyond what I can channel with the breath.
I believe in asking for what I want. If I want to hear someone scream, I tell them I want to hear them scream. It sets the direction for the scene, it gives them permission to open their mouth and throat and let the screams come out.
She proceeds to cook my ass with the back of a wooden hairbrush — a stinging, relentless implement. For a while I work on surfing the pain, keeping my breathing relaxed, staying with the ecstatic current, but Janet knows how to push me over my own edges, and she strikes without mercy till I cry and thrash, telling me all along about how Daddy likes to hear his girl scream...
Daddy? Where on earth did he come from? Hell if I know. Something about seeing her over my knees just tells me that I’m Daddy now.
By this point in the scene I am morphing roles in my own head with manic speed – daddy guru, rapist, Big Bad Wolf, torturer, gangbanger — but it doesn’t really matter, since they all seem to have essentially the same purpose: to beat and then fuck Dossie.
With tremendous skill, she rides me back and forth, easing up till I can catch the wave and then pounding down beyond my ability to process with serenity. We go back and forth for a while from floating to bucking, with her occasionally grabbing my crotch and making me writhe in a different way, shaming me with my wetness.
I know that if I give her a completely ecstatic ride, I’ll be frustrated and unhappy... and that if I take her into a place of pure miserable punished-girl pain, she’ll safe-word and we’ll both feel awful. So my job is to walk her right along the edge — we’ve been playing together so long that I can read her signals well enough to know what both states look like for her.
When her arm gets tired and I get to where she can’t throw me off my stride from this position, she gets up and has me kneel over the couch — another adjustment of pillows for the neck — and cuts into me with a cane with blistering ferocity. I can feel her now, feral and hungry, ripping me open to taste the emotional equivalent of blood, and I fall into the sweetness of victimhood, wriggling and crying and screaming and thrashing, miserable and ultimately delighted at the same time. This is one fine ride.
When she is ready, she tells me that she is going to put her dick on and then give me twelve more strokes of the cane, at maximum impact, and then fuck me till I scream. The intermission while she gets into the harness resets everything, and strips me of the dissociative cloud that had been making me immune to the stinging anguish of the cane at full force.
Hmmph. I’d like you to believe I’m doing it this way on purpose, but the fact is that the O-ring in Dossie’s harness is about an eighth of an inch smaller than her biggest dick,
the one I need to be wearing right now, and it’s sort of like trying to load a cannonball into a rifle barrel. I’m gritting my teeth and swearing softly under my breath. But then when I start up again, it’s like the interlude never happened – I am sadistic again, my ears hungry for the whistle of the cane and for Dossie’s cries....
When she comes back, each strike of the cane feels like a fire blazing across my ass. When she attacks in threes and fours I lose my place entirely, unable to hold still or silent, falling into involuntary convulsion. We lose count — twelve or twenty or who knows — it’s all out of control; and then she fucks me.
Long and deep and hard, yelling nastiness in my ear, I am hers, she can do whatever she wants with me, she’s going to fuck me till I can’t take it and then fuck me some more, and I’m so far out I believe her, and it’s all heat. She has two or three of what she calls top-gasms, and I have the equivalent, until we are both exhausted and it’s time to give it up. She gets up and reaches for the knots that tie my hands behind my back — and I beg. Please, please, can I have the vibrator before I’m untied?
It takes a minute to get it clear — it’s not like I’m exactly coherent right now, mind you — that I actively want to be on my back on the floor with my hands tied behind me. And when we get there almost instantaneously I come. Hugely.
This is when I can really tell I’m in male headspace — there’s a part of me that is just a tiny bit peeved that I haven’t been able to make her come by fucking her. And she’s right, I was all set to untie her — with my bum shoulders I’d have been in agony if my hands had been tied behind my back a fraction as long as hers have been; I’ve forgotten that, with her much greater flexibility, she can handle this much and more. But when I see how fast and hard she comes with the vibrator, all that is forgotten. What a glorious sight, her flushed and straining and shouting and streaming radiance in the bondage as the orgasm possesses her; and what a wonderful feeling to let her float back down to earth in my arms, the glow ever so slowly abating and settling down over both of us. The fireplace crackles and the dog comes over to be petted and reassured. We come quietly, gradually, giggling back into ourselves. What a joy. What a friendship. What a love.
Inside and Outside the Shell
On one hand, human beings have clit and cock, ass and breast and belly, the skin and the pulsating heart. On the other, we have spirit and soul and brain and the electricity that runs from the center of the earth, through the spine and up into the flaring guts of the sun. How are they connected, and how can we possibly conceive, nurture and maintain that complex and ever-shifting connection?
Western culture, and most religions both western and eastern, are far more comfortable in the realms above the nose than those below the waist. As a result, we all have been taught from childhood to separate our spirits from our bodies as though they were separate entities, as if it were possible and desirable to have flavor without food or food without flavor. (A koan: what would be the taste of a cheeseburger if a cheeseburger had never existed?)
Most of us grew up in a world that fears and distrusts the body aside from what it can produce toward the greater good – e.g., work and babies. One word for this philosophy might be puritanism. We encourage you to work toward the idea of integrating body, mind and spirit, to reject the thinking that has historically separated them.
Embracing the body as more than a clumsy receptacle that carries your brain around, but as the vehicle that expresses your spirit – a magical gift of pleasure – opens a miraculous door to other transcendence.
Many spiritual traditions have discouraged body consciousness: you’re not supposed to hang out in those nasty bad lower chakras, you’re supposed to move your consciousness up into the pure ethereal higher chakras like some vibrant bodiless violet being. Well, that may be all very well if you’re trying to solve the riddles of the universe, but for achieving radical ecstasy it kind of sucks. It doesn’t work to believe that any chakra is higher or more valuable than any other: think of it as an electrical circuit, where you have to connect all the poles or the electricity won’t flow. We suggest that you embrace and occupy and breathe into your full body, all the way from the top of your beautiful head to the tips of your vibrant toes, with particular attention to the points in between.
Both of us grew up as brain-dwellers, easy and comfortable in the realm of the intellect, poorly coordinated as children and tormented by body image problems as adults. (No wonder we grew up to be writers!) Sex and BDSM provided pathways that have allowed us to reclaim our rejected bodies and heal the wounds of separation caused by the apparent rifts between our intellectual and physical selves.
Here, Dossie describes an inspired night of music and dance we spent together:
The music is persistent: the didjeridu, the drums, the intense powerful repetitive chant from the Qawwal singers; at first, I can’t quite figure out how to get into it and fear looking foolish. Only a handful of people are dancing. A slender woman in black flows through a series of movements that look more like a martial art then a dance, intricate hand movements following her turning body, repeatedly reaching down for some imaginary thing and then lifting it into the air.
I thought, if I were beautiful like her, I wouldn’t be embarrassed to dance my dance. I wouldn’t worry that everybody would see nothing more than an old fat lady with clumsy aging joints.
Two of my friends are dancing. They are brother and sister, their connection happy and profound and familiar, visible in the shifting space between them. I feel the warmth and dearness of participating, even only by watching, in their lifelong connection.
Still the beat persists, the chanters shouting now, the didge growling out a relentless rhythm, with occasional high calls like cries of ecstasy, and I’m not holding still any more. Standing on the edge of the dance floor, I release my body to the song. My foot turns, lifting me and slamming down on the floor to meet the beat, my arms flow out of my body, grasping at air, releasing, pointing and shaping the air around me. My hips move to the center of the music, a constant restless seeking, side and swivel, arch back and thrust, over and over. I feel the energy rising in my spine; thoughts subside; the music is bearing me up, carrying me along, as if the floor, vibrating into my feet, is driving up into my torso which responds like a whip, head thrown up and back.
I’m in the river of the music, this endless rippling current carries me along like a leaf, spinning to some unknown destination, just in it for the ride. The beautiful woman pauses in her dance, catches my eye, speaks: It is such a delight to watch you dance! Thank you, I say, almost losing the thread — but I am dancing magic now and the river is still flowing and there’s no way I can lose my place in it.
The Sufi singers are still carrying us on with tremendous strength and power in their voices, the insistent long song of the whirling dervishes that can dance us into transcendence for longer than our bodies can hold out.
Janet appears in front of me — she has found her place in the dance. We match up our energies to dance together. I’m pleased — inviting her here, I had some worry she might not like it, but I should know better. When the subject is energy, Janet is right there. Our only differences arise when we are talking about it: our language, our concepts, what we are comfortable with. When we play with the energy in any of its amazing forms, the magic always works.
We connect first at the arms, reaching out to touch the energy around the head, the shoulders, the heart, dancing with our hands in the air, palm to palm, testing that we can feel each where the other is without looking. As we connect up all the nexuses in our bodies, the smoky current flows from heart to heart, belly to belly, forehead to forehead.
Janet touches her throat and I roar. We both think this is hysterically funny so we roar some more, still dancing, and Janet grabs me and pushes her forehead into mine.
It’s like plugging into source. To each other. Palpable connection, thick in the fingers, we are dancing close. I pull the hair on the back of
her head to make the pictures come, and she pulls mine, and the Great Snake laughs and coils between us. Our hands flow to the top of each other’s heads to feel the crowns, and kundalini flows through both of us, out our skulls and up to the stars.
Still the music persists. We dance close now, clutching each other, grinding bellies and pubes, grabbing the heart at the back, the chi, the sun in the belly. (Oh, that must be why they call it the solar plexus!) We dance into each other — she becomes the Great Snake that flows through my body, her eyes peering owl-like into me, and we flow like this till the music
finally
stops.
Oooh, lovely. We curl up into each other on some chairs, dripping sweat and gasping for water. I pour some down my blouse, back and front, to cool down. Our connection becomes a cuddle with distinct and dangerous sexual overtones. It would be nice to go home and fuck, and we savor the turn-on, knowing that the dance took all our strength and that, anyway, the dance was orgasm enough. So we go home and cuddle our way into the flow of dreams.
We both suspect that stunning adventures of the kind Dossie has described here have been made possible for us solely by our kinkiness and our sexiness; we would be brain-journeyers only otherwise, and what a diminished life that would be.
Janet struggles particularly vexatiously with “the mind-body problem” : when it comes time to actually play or dance or fuck or whatever, she’s generally fine, but for hours or days or even weeks beforehand, her stubborn brain will generally think up approximately four thousand three hundred twenty-nine excuses why she should not do that thing... right up until she starts to do it, at which point it humbly subsides and integrates into her mind/body/ spirit like a trouper. (Yay!)
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