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March 22, 2010 Diary, Nikki 2 Comments

I saw Johnny’s head for the first time that night. He followed me into the bedroom, sat on the bed and took off his baseball cap. Underneath he was wearing a blue stretchy skullcap. I watched as he pulled it off slowly. He looked away. This was a routine for him that only became nerve-wracking when he cared too much. Springy blonde curls surrounded a thick band of hairless scarred skin running down the middle of his scalp like an uneven dissection of his brain. He had a large birthmark that took up half of his forehead and extended into his hair.

He was respectful. I said, “let’s get undressed.”

He was skinny and his body had some random bumps and scars in funny places. He had battle wounds and a faded tattoo of a rabbit smoking weed. I ran my hands over his back. He smelled like baby powder and his skin was smooth and warm. I felt the delineations in the surface of his flesh, the slightly rougher parts, the sporadic protrusions. I felt along his ribs. They seemed too close to the surface, only protected by a thin layer of skin. I touched his head and as the room lightened I examined the birthmark. It was raised and very dark and had a little irregular bubble under the skin just before the hairline.


He pulled me closer. I heard gospel music faintly on the radio. I felt the rhythmic pulse of air from the fan as it described its arc. I watched my bedroom wall change texture and color as the sun rose higher.

He kissed my ear and I was overwhelmed with sudden love. I loved him because he was flawed and reluctant to expose himself. I loved him because his job was washing dishes and he found the joy and meaning in it. That was good enough and I was kind of blind. I always tried to pay attention but he knew more than me.

We kissed for a long time and then he lowered himself over me, kissed my belly button and my thighs. His tongue pressed against me and into me too hard at first. When I came it was intense. Wave after wave wracked my body and I was left gasping and drained. My mouth went dry and I gulped down water so I could kiss him again. I turned so I was flat on my stomach underneath him. I felt heat radiating from his chest against my back. When he came he just sighed. He was very quiet the whole time. I only heard him say, “oh, god…”

Johnny slept until 2:30 and then I drove him home. I felt safe. He helped me reclaim some gratitude. He waved goodbye to me from his porch and I felt hydrated.

Nikki Thomas was born and raised in Los Angeles. She was a straight A student who couldn’t follow the rules and spent as much time in the principal’s office as in the library. At university she opted not to join a sorority and instead filled her free time cruising Hollywood bars and parties, hooking up and getting down. Nikki is a bad girl with a heart of gold. These are her stories — consider it our Monday treat for you.

Pussy Power

March 21, 2010 Diary, Raymond No Comments

She strips down unceremoniously. She takes her pants off, and then her shirt. Lies back on the bed, waiting, wearing a bra and panties that must be three or four years old. We’ve been together long enough that we’ve become this way. The blood has begun to slide down the interior of my cock. It’s not an urgent feeling. Not yet. My balls generate a light surge of sperm, which I can feel as though it’s coming from underneath me.

But I’m not getting hard. Not yet.

I won’t get erect until I have what I really want: her juices all over my face. It begins with the smell. Her scent has become the most powerful substance on earth. I kiss her lightly on the mouth and position myself above her. But in my mind, I’m already moving down.

I run my fingers over her skin. Reach around and unclasp the bra. Her breasts are free, she lies back again. They rest on her chest. I stroke them lightly. Run my tongue over them. Yet this is preamble; I’m ready now to begin the feast. I pull her panties from her, she shakes her hips with a slight wiggle to help.

And there it is: the object of my desire. I don’t know if she realizes how beautiful she is in this moment. Her vulva is pink and beginning to bloom red.

Her pussy has personality. It has power.

Oh-so-gently I bring my tongue to the hood. I raise it, my tongue erect. I let the middle of my tongue engage her. Slowly, waiting for what will happen next. And there it is… Slick, warm nectar. She moans, but I know it’s only the first throes of release — inhibition beginning to fall aside.

Now my cock is alert. Now we’ve arrived where we should be. I stroke — delicately — the interior of the lips. Red, red, red. These lips speak to me. I kiss them, and I drink her taste in.

The smell is pungent and permeates the room. It is the smell of life, of urgency, and it is a warm smell more powerful than that of any fire.

I move my face forward. There are so many things I can do to please her at this moment… And I will do them, eventually. First I must take in this moment, as the slickness of her insides now embrace my mouth, my cheeks, my nose. I nestle my face there for less than a second, not wanting to get too lost in it. I let the warmth run over my right cheek.

For a moment now we will have the greatest kiss. I run my tongue inside her, coaxing more of her onto me. My hands reach out, palms on the bed. I lift myself to her face and slide my tongue into her mouth. She kisses me back, also drinking it in. We are reaching a frenzy of yearning. Our faces rub along each other, cheek to cheek. The smell is that of everything we want. She moans. Hungry. At this moment that taste is the divine.

Raymond Burns is an esoteric indie film professional living in Los Angeles. Raymond is a social animal who loves every inch of the female form. He comprehensively appreciates the quiet aftermath of a woman’s orgasm. He hangs a bit to the left.

Image courtesy of the Sex and the 405 archives.

Cock Longing

March 17, 2010 Diary 4 Comments

It’s there pressed up against my leg. I feel the hard lump hidden in the layers of clothing. My hand travels to the button of his jeans, pulls the button through the loop hole and pushes the zipper down enough for me to shove my hand in. I first feel the hardness through the thin material and I know he wants my flesh on his — it’s all a part of the tease. My hand goes to the waistband, prods it away and wraps around his hard appendage. I let out a sigh and, as I stroke his hardness, a sigh escapes from his lips.

There is something addicting about our interactions and his cock. His size is pleasant and it seems to hit so perfectly against my g-spot when he is fucking me as I chant, “hurt me, hurt me, hurt me.” His cock has caused me to squirt and come in ways I have never truly experienced. It’s beautiful to look at and smooth to suck on. His sensitivity to touch and tongue arouses me and makes me want to do what I can to see, hear and feel those responses. I get off on getting him off and vice versa. I love laying there, casually fondling him while having a conversation just to hear the long pauses as he reacts to my fingertips on that spot. I get off on disturbing the normal mind flow.

Seeing him is not as frequent as I would like. There is distance and schedules that do not always collide as they should. When we do finally come together there is that first moment that I treasure every time… that first second of penetration. I always tighten up during our time apart and that mix of pain and pleasure of him forcing his way back inside of me gets me off to no end. I want to savor and relish moment but then I get enthralled with the fucking at hand.

His cock is magic and this why not just any cock will do for this nymphomatic fiend.

Dark Gracie (@darkgracie) is a widely-read, published sex blogger. Approaching her sexuality with her trademark honesty and humor, her work has appeared in Fleshbot and Sexoteric. This is her first collaboration with Sex and the 405. But don’t worry about being gentle, she enjoys a good spanking.

Image courtesy of the Sex and the 405 archives.

Dating for Kinksters

March 16, 2010 Daisy, Diary No Comments

Before I discovered my enthusiasm for BDSM and embarked on my journey as a submissive, I dated and mated as most vanilla people do: dated guys I met through friends, fucked guys I met at bars, married a guy I was set up with by a coworker. Each scenario differed depending on my goals at that moment. After the divorce, my goals drastically changed — I was no longer looking for a husband or life partner, but just wanted to have fun and make up for all the sex that my marriage lacked. This was also the beginning of my sexual awakening.

After a good long ride of lots of sex with lots of hot younger guys (a stripper, a porn star, a surfer, a playboy, etc.) and no intention of settling down, I somehow fell into a relationship with a guy I’d met at a swing party. What was meant to be a three-day fling lasted the better part of four or five years.

Daisy tries online dating

As that ended I was urged by a friend to sign up for an online dating site for “alternative” people. I wrote an upbeat profile that demonstrated my quirkiness and my smarts. I wasn’t an easy fit by any means — most men were intimidated by my accomplishments, worldliness and hyper-sexuality.

And I was over 35, which, in L.A., is toxic.

Eventually I coupled up with a nice guy whose hobbies were building BDSM dungeon furniture and collecting tattoos. Some kinksters were amazed that we’d met through a vanilla dating site, but he was clearly looking for someone outside of the small local BDSM scene.

That relationship ran its course and although he and I didn’t work out, he did a great deed in introducing me to BDSM. I also realized that I wasn’t going to be happy any longer in a vanilla relationship. I needed a Dom-lover-boyfriend to call my own. Someone who would lovingly torture me, care for me and curl up with me at night.

SWF seeks like-minded pervert for LTR

If I was a hard match before, I am an even harder match now because the BDSM requirement limits my opportunities drastically. Online dating is a strange beast, but for a fragmented niche population such as the BDSM community, it totally makes sense.

I signed up for a site I’d call the Match.com of the kinky set. My profile talked a lot about what I’m looking for in a long-term relationship, as well as my BDSM experience, likes and dislikes.

“Seeking physically active, sophisticated Dom for LTR; prefer a funky fun-loving foodie like myself, who will flog me and then fuck me hard.”

Easy, right?

New world order

Being the new girl on the site I got a flurry of messages at first. Some were short, crude messages from Doms with intimidating screen names like BrutalDaddy4U, MasterSadist, BigFatDick and FetchTheWhip. I’d check their profiles to learn more, and discard most of them.

“I need a sick and twisted cunt to use for extreme filth and abuse…”


I got a lot of messages of all lengths from Doms who obviously hadn’t read my profile and had nothing in common with me. They often started with unimaginative language like: “I’m seeking a classy submissive lady who can go to wine tastings with me and carry on a conversation…”


Some were gross and absurd: “Hi. Would you like to be abused and humiliated by a 385 lbs Latin Dom?…”


Some Doms tried to lay on the domination thickly in their messages resulting in insincere dirty talk that was hard to take seriously: “You will e-mail me today and tell me your innermost fantasies and how often you masturbate” … “you will gratefully fall to your knees as I skull-fuck you and pull your hair and then cum on your tits…”

Yeah, whatever. Delete!

Don’t top a Dom

In one exchange I was accused of trying to “bottom from the top” when I said I’d prefer that he gave me his phone number rather than giving out my number first.

“I don’t like being told what to do… the man is supposed to call the woman. And you messaged me first! You want too much control.”

The message got nastier from there. Indeed, perhaps I do “bottom from the top” but in the vanilla dating world that was just fine. What’s a sub to do — just sit back and wait for the Dom of her dreams to swoop her up on a white horse and whisk her off to his medieval dungeon to be his slave?

The clueless guy

At first I was eager to meet Doms in person to see if there might be any chemistry. Strike while the iron’s hot! I agreed to meet one the same day we spoke because he offered to come out to a convenient location. He sent a professional headshot of himself, smolderingly handsome and dark haired. He whispered sexy things on the phone and sounded semi-promising.

But in person, he was much mousier than I’d imagined and his creepy whispers made my skin crawl, sounding instead like sleazy uninspired dialogue from bad soft porn movies. I was quickly turned off but stayed to be polite. After 40 minutes or so he said, “I’m sensing from your body language (arms folded) and conversation that you are really closed.”

“Well,” I said, “to be honest I’m just not feeling any chemistry here.”

He changed the subject but still only wanted to harp on his fantasies. We were definitely not connecting on that level. We did have a good talk about BBQs and Japanese food, though.

He: “You will meet me Thursday night after the Laker game.”

Me: “No I don’t think so. I don’t want to be out late.”

He: “I will call you Thursday and we’ll make a plan for Thursday night.”

He called me on my way home and I dodged his next call in the morning. Ugh! I wrote a polite note and explained that I didn’t feel we were a match but I wished him the best of luck. He wrote back, without a hint of irony, “Wow! What a surprise! I didn’t see that coming.”

He still continues to write me even though I’ve asked him to stop.

The Gentle Dom

The next Dom I met was a great conversationalist on the phone at first, since we work in similar professions, but quickly he just wanted to talk about his particular kink. That was to have his submissive fuck a lot of other guys to demonstrate her submission to him. Hmmm… He also talked about rape fantasies and I flatly said I had no interest. He messaged me at length every day after that with more questions about his fantasies:

He: “Well how would you feel if you were asked to do a gang bang for me?”

Me: “I don’t know because that’s never happened in my experience and isn’t something I’ve ever thought about doing.”

This is OK once but it was a repeated theme for him and he continually asked variations of the same question, hoping for a different answer. It wore me down after a while so I thought it best to meet and not waste any more chat time.

In person, he was much older than his photos and fatter than he portrayed himself on his profile. He leered at me and launched into more repeats of his gang bang fantasies. He was too gentle and indirect for my taste. I didn’t feel any natural dominant vibe from him and that’s really what I was seeking. Besides, our kinks were far too mismatched.

A lot of first dates

After that I had a few more first dates in the spirit of being open minded, and they led nowhere. I finally became impatient and lost my initial zeal for finding a Dom-lover-boyfriend. I concluded that I needed to be less open-minded and not bother meeting with anyone who didn’t sound stellar.

Once I had this attitude shift, I started meeting more interesting Doms online, and have met a few that might even warrant a second date! I also realized that dating in the kink world is more about first finding BDSM and sexual compatibility, and then the relationship follows.

Sir M’s permission

As of this writing I have slowed down and am taking my time with dating. Many of the Doms I speak with don’t know how to deal with me because I am training with and under the protection of a Dom (Sir M) and they’d have to ask his permission to play with me. Most of these guys want to be the one and only boss of me.

I’m happy with my current situation training with Sir M and don’t want to end that any time soon. Our relationship is a bit unique because he doesn’t own me and that’s not an option — he is in a primary monogamous relationship and is not available for a romantic relationship with me. This was part of our initial negotiation so I knew this going in, and we both understand that I’d still continue looking for a romantic interest in my life while training with him. 

Eventually I will move on.  I’m ultimately looking for a love soul mate — one who will gaze deeply into my eyes without fear, and to whom I will completely and fearlessly surrender. I’m still in the beginning of this journey and find that what I’m looking for in a man is changing drastically as I evolve.  Dating is a way of trying on new men to see if there’s a fit.

But it will be hard for some new Dom to “steal me away” from Sir M — he’ll really have to jump high hurdles for me. And Sir M has set the bar extraordinarily high.

Daisy TraLaL(@daisytralala) is a saucy Angelino kinkster who glides with ease between the worlds of tech, art, cuisine, electronica and dungeon parties. Check back every Tuesday for posts from her journey to the most divine surrender.

Rear Window

March 15, 2010 Diary, Nikki No Comments

I remember sitting in a movie theater in the middle of a Hitchcock double feature. I think it was Rear Window. My friend from school Jenna was sitting to my right. We were 16. We were transfixed.

Then just as Jimmy Stewart was beginning to sink into voyeuristic compulsion I felt something against my left leg. It was a sensation so slow and light at first, I thought I was imagining it. I was wearing black tights and my skirt had come up above my knees when I sat down. Part of my thigh was exposed. But it was dark in there. There was a man sitting on that side of me but I hadn’t seen him because we’d come in late. I hadn’t paid any attention.

I became aware of pressure increasing against my thigh but the change in sensation was so gradual it was like a dream.

And then slowly he began stroking, gently up and down my thigh in the dark. I felt an unfamiliar mixture of fear and excitement and pleasure. I didn’t want it to stop. His fingers, nails against the fabric of my tights, slow, harder and softer, up to the hem of my skirt and then an inch underneath and then out again. His hand never ventured too high. He was being respectful. He was violating my boundaries and exploiting me in the most inappropriate way but he was a gentleman about it. I lost concentration. I was only aware of that sensation against my leg.

I suddenly felt like I’d been starved for contact for years; my flesh was screaming for it. And this stranger was satisfying me. He was responding to the hunger of my skin. He knew.

I wanted to know who was doing this to me but I couldn’t look. I was scared of him. And I was also worried if I looked and he caught me he would stop. And I didn’t want him to stop.

I hovered, uncertain and afraid and aroused, in a state of suspended consciousness for the rest of the movie. I didn’t follow the story. I couldn’t. My whole body and mind were concentrated in that little area of intense sensation. It had become his area. He’d claimed me by taking liberties. He wanted skin contact. He wanted to touch me so he did and he didn’t have to ask. I was so turned on. I imagined this stranger claiming me inch by inch without asking and me yielding, unable to resist, in the middle of a dark movie theater with Grace Kelly huge and gray and elegant above us.

The lights came up when the first feature ended. His hand was gone. I finally looked. He was short with dark hair and pale skin. Green eyes. Ordinary looking.

“Will you save my seat?” he asked me.

“Yes,” I said.

Of course I said yes. I didn’t think about anything I just needed him there. I needed his hand back on my leg. I said yes.

Nikki Thomas was born and raised in Los Angeles. She was a straight A student who couldn’t follow the rules and spent as much time in the principal’s office as in the library. At university she opted not to join a sorority and instead filled her free time cruising Hollywood bars and parties, hooking up and getting down. Nikki is a bad girl with a heart of gold. These are her stories — consider it our Monday treat for you.

Under Surveillance

March 9, 2010 Daisy, Diary 1 Comment

Sir M sent an email to me with a subject line that made my heart leap: “New Rule.”

The message explained that I am to keep on my webcam on at all times when I’m at home so he can see if I’m there when he logs onto his computer. This way, he can easily drop in on me when he wants to. I’ve never used my webcam for personal communications, only for business calls, so I set up a new account for his eyes only with great excitement.

Had any other man told he he’d be constantly monitoring me on webcam so he could peek into my private life, I’d have been really angry. But with Sir M, it makes sense in the context of our Dom/sub relationship. The webcam gives him another way to dominate me that extends beyond our sessions together. It’s a subversive thrill to think of him dropping in on me and being ready for him any time. Sir M has earned the gift of my submission and so I gladly offer him access to my home life and my secrets.

On camera

I can’t see him on webcam — he does not have one. I really don’t mind this one-way communication. Being submissive can mean being on unequal footing with him if he chooses. He uses the audio to speak with me and I stare at his frozen avatar on screen. We never actually speak on the phone so this is the best way for him to stay present.

I adapted quickly and found that I really enjoy having the webcam ready for him to eavesdrop on my life. In fact, one day recently he told me his electricity would be off all day and not to bother with the webcam, and I was genuinely disappointed!

I use the webcam on my laptop because I can move it to different rooms with as I putter around my apartment. When I’m cooking I set it on the dining room table and forget about it. He doesn’t care if I’m in unglamorous sweats or in underwear (or less) so I feel perfectly comfortable with keeping the camera on. If I’m not alone and don’t want him dropping in, I simply turn it off.

Sexy time

Once I realized the power I can have using the webcam, it became even more compelling. I found I could excite and tease Sir M remotely by removing my clothing on camera nonchalantly during normal conversation. We can be chatting about my day and my shirt suddenly lifts up to reveal a breast as the camera pans down to the nipple. I can be talking to him on webcam and put the laptop down on the couch so the camera points between my legs, as I happen to be wearing a miniskirt with no panties.

Instant Panty-cam! Or I may be straightening up the house naked in anticipation of his “visit” via webcam. I just love the pause and surprise in his voice when he discovers my naughtiness and encourages more of it.

Once I’m topless I lick my index finger and roll it around my nipple to get his attention. I’ll pull on the hoop piercings in both nipples, making sure he can see. And when things progress he has me “entertain him” — meaning I must masturbate on camera for him. The laptop comes in really handy because I can bring it into the bedroom and really entertain him.

I have gotten completely lost in these sessions playing with myself as he takes firm (remote) control — narrating and pushing me to do outrageous things. When he yells “Cum for me bitch!” it’s as if he is with me in my bedroom. My hands work more furiously because I want to please him and cum hard for him. This also helps train me to be able to have forced orgasms to the sound of his voice.

I’m sure Sir M would love to watch me have sex with J via webcam but I know J wouldn’t like this idea. (J is my on-and-off lover who has seen me through some wild times in my sexual evolution.) I’m an exhibitionist at heart and I’d love to have a sex partner who would be into having Sir M watch us go at it.

(If you think that’s you, send me a tweet!)

Special guest appearances

Lately I’ve gotten more brazen with the webcam. I’ve been leaving the webcam on when friends visit, but not always mentioning it to them. Sir M once dropped in on a visit from one of my close friends, who came over for dinner while I was speaking with him. I was vaguely aware of his monitoring, but it didn’t affect our evening at all. Our conversations sounded like a raunchy episode from Sex and the City — we talked about men, online dating, cock sucking, menopause, shoes, weekend plans and of course gossiped about friends. He listened curiously for a while until we moved the laptop to make room for dinner and the audio was drowned out by music.

I imagined him at home in his office, leaning back in a big leather office chair, possibly smoking a cigar and watching this home-made reality show of my apartment. I like imagining him at home because in real life I’m not allowed to look him in the eye and it’s hard to get a complete vision of him. In my imagination, at the other end of my webcam, I can look straight at him without any consequences. I imagine him with a smirking grin, pleased that I’ve brought him another pretty girl to look at and more secrets to share.

Naked blogging

Even now as I write this on my laptop I know he may drop in and watch me and that’s exciting. Why exciting? It’s funny to me that someone would even be interested in me enough to watch me at home doing nothing. It feels so wrong to willingly give up my privacy to anyone. Of course, being a pervert, I am naturally drawn to and turned on by things that we are told are wrong.

In the future I’ve promised him a naked blogging session on webcam featuring myself and another female blogger. After all my duty is to serve and please him and in doing so, I hope to provide lots of pretty girls for him to look at and meet on webcam. He’s so persuasive he can probably talk some of them into meeting his flogger.

This is definitely not going to turn into a Bravo series The Real Subs of Los Angeles! However I’m enjoying doing this reality show for one.

Daisy TraLaLA (@daisytralala) is a saucy Angelino kinkster who glides with ease between the worlds of tech, art, cuisine, electronica and dungeon parties. Check back every Tuesday for posts from her journey to the most divine surrender.

Subs’ Night Out

March 2, 2010 Daisy, Diary No Comments

Sir M started our last session by pulling up my dress, taking out a paddle and whacking me harshly several times on my behind. I shrieked from the combo of pain and surprise. Usually he warms up with light spanks before such imparting hard blows but I was being punished.

My punishment

“This is your punishment for running out of the room last week without my permission.”

I had recently lost my nerve after an intense impact play session and ran out of the room to demonstrate my anger.

Sir M continued, “Now, is ‘OUCH THIS HURTS’ a safe word?” No. “Is ‘THAT’S TOO HARD’ a safe word?” No.  “Is ‘STOP, YOU MOTHERFUCKER’ a safeword?” No. “So what’s your safe word?” Yellow. OK, the point was made and I won’t fuck up like that again.

“I could have beaten the hell out of you that night but I chose not to,” Sir M said.

I understood that this punishment was symbolic -– to show that I can’t get away with such behavior — and could have been much worse. After that, I was in good standing again with Sir M and he adjusted his beatings so they didn’t go beyond my pain threshold. As a result, he was able to immediately take me to a much deeper level.

Desiring pain and pleasure

Each encounter with Sir M sends me into another realm of glorious release, but leaves me wildly desiring more of his pain and pleasure. I am addicted to his sweet torture. So I was more than a bit disappointed when he told me I’d be off duty that Saturday night. I could have gone to the dungeon party without him but, as an uncollared female, I wouldn’t have his protection from being badgered by all the single Doms. Here was my opportunity to try something different.

I’d heard of Bar Sinister, a Hollywood club that combines a goth and fetish aesthetic with industrial and 80’s dance music. Sir M gave me permission to go. And who better to accompany me on this curious quest but Sex and the 405 Editrix-in-Chief, AV Flox.

Dressed to thrill

Going to the club was a perfect opportunity to wear my latex dress. I’d worn it to a dungeon party a few weeks prior, and realized how impractical it was for such an event, since it takes a lot of effort to wiggle in and out of that dress. (Practical dungeon wear must be easy to take off, since I’m needed to strip naked and redress throughout the evenings.) For my “subs’ night out” with AV, I put on my hooker heels, lined my mouth with the most intense red lipstick and headed to her hideaway.

When I arrived we gawked at each other, both dressed in short black sleeveless dresses (hers was microscopic) and black heels with bare legs. Sweet! We were headed to the “Fang Banger’s Ball” but neither of us could conjure up a goth or vampire look. AV shunned wearing her Twilight necklace. We were going more for the “whip me, please, and then fuck me” type of look.

Bar Sinister is housed in a classic Hollywood building and has several different rooms but still feels intimate. The crowd provided some interesting people-watching, mainly youngish Goths with bad hairdos, clothes from Hot Topic and giant, chunky platform boots. Goth-zombie Go-Go dancers with wan complexions, smudgy raccoon eye makeup and shredded lingerie gyrated to synth pop in the main room. An adjacent room with a smoky fountain in the center had huddled masses of Goths smoking and dancing.

The Playroom

After a quick orientation of the first floor we headed upstairs to the Playroom. There are a few play areas and more people sitting around the perimeter chatting and hoping to watch some light BDSM scenes. I was approached by one of the guys working there, and he asked if I’d been before, wanted to play, etc. I told him that I have a Dom (Sir M) and can’t play with other Doms unless they request permission from him in advance.

“Are you collared?” he asked — the BDSM version of wearing a wedding ring.

“No,” I answered.

We watched as another Dom did a very quick session of spanking and lightly flogging a fully-clothed girl leaning up against a gothic-style cross. Coming from a hardcore dungeon scene, this seemed really tame to me. Last week I was watching young girls get bound and gagged with duct tape over the baby binkies in their mouths, tied to each other with rope and taunted with a very sharp knife by a particularly twisted sadist.

The Dom at Bar Sinister was doing an artful job of two-handed flogging, twirling them like a dancer. AV looked on hungrily — the other Dom recognized this and offered to flog her. For the sake of journalism(!) she accepted readily.

AV gets flogged

Those of you who follow my tweets may have seen my exclamation of amazement when AV ripped her dress off, flung the tiny bit of fabric to me to hold onto, and stepped up to the flogging post. One of the Doms ran over with electrical tape to cover her nipples since nudity isn’t allowed there. That made for a nice visual — AV in a tiny black thong with black crosses on her nipples.

He first spanked her with both hands, palms flexed back for more impact. I couldn’t see her face but she seemed to wilt and I imagined she was floating in space with this experience. He would alternate the spankings with intermissions of caresses, checking in with her and making sure she was responding properly. Spanking in that manner makes a nice muffled smacking sound, very different than the sharp thwack of a single-handed flat palm spanking.

He pulled out a single flogger with soft synthetic strands making up the fall. At first he softly traced the silhouette of her back with the flogger to get her acquainted with it. He started twirling it, the ends barely kissing her back and buttocks. Then he moved in so he could strike with more impact. Every eye in the room was upon them, and some of the crowd in the back yelled at people in front to sit down and not block their view.

The session wasn’t long but was evidently effective. He finished up and carefully led her down from the flogging post. She fell to her knees with legs spread in the appropriate submissive position. He grabbed a bottle of water and tipped her head back. Her lips spread open as he carefully poured water down her throat. Hydration is important after these scenes. She looked blissful, like a grateful pet that’s finally been fed its meal.

Afterward she redressed and we munched heart-shaped cookies. She tweeted and I whisked her back home. This encounter was a tease but it satisfied her cravings, at least temporarily. Overall it was a highly successful subs’ night out!

Daisy TraLaLA (@DaisyTraLaLA) is a saucy Angelino kinkster who glides with ease between the worlds of tech, art, cuisine, electronica and dungeon parties. Check back every Tuesday for posts from her journey to the most divine surrender.

The Dream Girls

February 27, 2010 AV, Diary No Comments

Dream Girls. A lone building in the middle of this desert wasteland with a sign over it in pink. Dream girls. It’s a sick fuchsia, buzzing nervously against the night like the whole thing’s about to give out.

We’re not looking for a bar or a crazy good time. We’re looking for girls. Sounds like a simple proposition, but it’s worse than needing drink. When you needed drink, you’ll get drink and it won’t matter what it is, because anything will suit the purpose. With girls it’s different. You need beauty. Beauty is not always easy to find; beauty won’t hand herself over at the flash of ID and the twenty on the bar.

Beauty’s a cunt and that’s why you go to beat-up, tragic places where the girls are hungry for fresh blood and crisp bills.

Dream Girls is it — they don’t even have a liquor license. We walk in; the girls are lined up next to the door, most of them naked save for stockings, smiling like beauty pageant contestants. They’re greenies, I can just tell. “Hi, hi!” they say. One of them, a tiny blonde, probably five-two, braves to break the line. She steps forward with a shy smile and says, “you’re so beautiful.”

Darling little thing. I want to devour her; I look at her little hands in with those tiny, shiny acrylic nails and her little feet in those tragic, white PVC stilettos. Her belly is milk in a glass; no ripples of bones, muscles or tits. Were it not for the honey-colored landing strip, she could have passed herself off as a junior high-schooler. I bet she broke the heart of every teacher she ever had.

“Dance for me.”

“Oh,” she says, “OK.”

My boyfriend and I take a seat. He looks at me and says, “you’re going to leave me for a woman one day.”


Men are straight-forward, clear and concise. Women are high-voltage labyrinths, confused and confusing. I only do confusing on purpose. Also, I can’t get on my knees for anything but a dick. And I must be brought to my knees.

Still, when she reaches down halfway through her set and pulls at me, I let the unexpected strength lift me onstage. She kneels and begins to run her hands over me; she cups my breasts, strokes my legs, down, then up, taking my skirt with it. The shiny acrylic nails glisten in the lights. I feel her breath in my ear, fast and hard.

Another girl takes her pole and another crawls up on the stage and begins playing with my hair. She and the nymph drag their lips over every bit of exposed flesh on my body.

Strippers are like married men: fantastic, impossible things. But it never matters — pleasure is a perfect hijacker. Just this once, just this once. Yeah. Just remember to catch yourself before you think this one will be any different than the ones before.

Image by Calamity Hane. Originally published in Black Heart Magazine, Fall 2006.

Living on the Edge

February 23, 2010 Daisy, Diary No Comments

Sir M likes to play dangerously. He has run fire torches along my body, held perilously sharp blades at my neck and intentionally made me lose consciousness momentarily through asphyxiation. In the BDSM world this is called edgeplay, a category of activities with potentially high risk.

You might wonder why I’d allow this. I know that Sir M is highly experienced and super-knowledgeable in these practices, so I place my trust in him and surrender. I let him play in ways I never imagined possible a few months ago. As my trust deepens, he is able to escalate the potential danger level in his play.

Pass the knife please

The first time he pulled a knife on me, I freaked out, sobbing miserably and shaking. I don’t remember ever feeling fear that tangibly. I tried to keep completely still as he grazed my face and chest with a terrifyingly sharp medieval-looking knife with double blades and a carved fleur-de-lis handle. I doubted my ability to stay still, and was sure I might have a spontaneous spasm and lose muscle control, causing him to cut off my breast. In every other way I’d played with Sir M, I had faith that he was in control. But knife play offered a freak chance that I could screw up. It screwed with my mind and left me petrified.

He continued to acclimate me to knives by showing me another deadly-looking dagger. My stomach twisted into knots and I doubled over, anxiety-ridden. He put the knife away. The next time he asked about knives again, and before I saw any knife, just the thought of a knife was enough to tie my stomach in knots again. After that Sir M backed off knife play for a while.

Playing with fire

For the next frightening thing to tackle, he introduced fire play. I told him I was afraid of fire and he smiled.


I was stripped naked and chained up to the Saint Andrew’s Cross. He made sure I wasn’t wearing any cream or cologne containing alcohol, as that would make my skin more flammable.

“I’m not sure about your pussy hair,” he said, of my trimmed landing strip. “It may burn, and that smells bad. We’ll have to get rid of that in the future.”

Sir M dipped a small torch in alcohol and set it aflame, then quickly drew lines of fire across my breasts, down my stomach and along my thighs. It was scary and beautiful to see my skin blazing. The fire on my skin was sometimes hot but didn’t burn me or hurt me; it just caused some confusion in my brain from the illusion of danger.

“I’m making a river of fire all the way down your stomach,” Sir M beamed as he narrated his moves. “See these little rivulets? They’re beautiful!”

The thin dramatic trails of flames licked my breasts, abdomen and legs. They gave me warmth and were amazing to witness, and that somehow made me feel  more secure. I also could see his thrill in painting with fire, with my body being the canvas. That got me over my fear of fire play.

Make mine a bonfire

The following week he decided to set a bonfire on my belly, swearing it wouldn’t burn me at all. I’d seen a photo of this and it looks like an amazing primitive ritual. I was nervous and terrified but I agreed to it because I knew it would please him. It was not an act of bravery on my part but an act of submission.

Sir M pulled out of his bag a material used by magicians, highly flammable cotton that has to be handled precisely or the user can burn himself. He created a long winding trail for the fire around my chest and abdomen, spiraling from the outer edges to the center like an extended candlewick. The preparation took a while but the bonfire lasts only for moments. He lit one end with a lighter and a shriek peeled out of me from my innermost depths. The whole thing burned rapidly and brilliantly.

The fire did not burn directly on my skin but it was a total mind fuck — the brain sees the body on fire and an incredible burst of adrenaline jolts the body into another realm. And then it’s over, and the after-effect is stunning. A huge sense of relief combines with the panicked realization of what just happened, plus the intoxicating sensations of playing on the edge. The experience was definitely a break though for me in tackling fears head on.

Sharper image

The following week Sir M introduced knife play again at our private session. He pulled out a small but seriously sharp and menacing pocketknife and ran the dull edge along my skin to get me comfortable with it. With the tip he poked my breasts, my abdomen, and other vulnerable spots hard enough to alarm me. Adrenaline began pumping thru me. He took the sharp blade and held it against my neck threateningly. I knew that if I moved forward he could slice open my carotid artery and I’d bleed to death in 60 seconds. I concentrated on staying still and did intentional yogic breathing. That calmed me down although all of my nerve endings were on full alert.

Then a transformation happened for me. Rather than panicking I settled into a calm trance-like state and became more attuned to what he was doing. Sir M carefully ran the blade and point across my skin to carve scratches into me, but not deep enough to draw blood. He made a sunray design on my breasts radiating from my nipples. He put some scratches over my side ribs, my back. And all the while I felt like I was hurtling thru the solar system weightlessly, liberated from my body but aware of it at the same time. I was exhilarated for hours afterwards.

Sir M’s experiments with edge play force me to confront my fears and inhibitions in ways I haven’t had to before. And I’ve become more fearless in my daily life as a result. So I will try extra hot chilies with my dinner!

Daisy TraLaLA (@DaisyTraLaLA) is a saucy Angelino kinkster who glides with ease between the worlds of tech, art, cuisine, electronica and dungeon parties. Check back every Tuesday for posts from her journey to the most divine surrender.


February 20, 2010 AV, Diary 1 Comment

The car reeks of sex as we enter Laughlin on Casino Drive. We eat some place at the Edgewater. I tell them I want the meat blue and they have no idea what it means. You can always tell what kind of a restaurant you’re at if they know what “blue” means.

As predicted, it’s the worst filet mignon I’ve ever had. I order an Americano but they don’t know what that is either. I ask for two shots of espresso and warm water and make my own.

“Isn’t it hilarious that a ruined, watered-down espresso is called ‘an American’?” I ask my boyfriend. He doesn’t get it. He just likes that I’m a snob. I think it kind of turns him on, feeds his ego that a snob will fuck him. I better not tell him that I am trying to be more, you know, egalitarian.

Casinos are little bite-size Judeccas on earth. Everyone looks like hell sitting in front of the slot machines. People sit for hours here, fat asses spilling over the little stools, stubby arms pulling the levers again and again. Their eyes follow the spinning reels, like little hamsters inside their heads. Tragic.

As we’re leaving the place, I see a billboard over the Riverside announcing a Lisa Loeb concert. “July 1 & 2!” it reads, right after the menu specials flash. The picture shows her in her staple cat-eye tortoiseshell glasses; the old promo shot from 1994, the good old days when “Stay” was everyone’s break-up song thanks to Reality Bites. Pathetic.

A few miles away, we’re at our desert house, a small three bedroom in the middle of nowhere. He’d turned on the air conditioning over the phone hours earlier, so it’s a manageable temperature when we walk in. Technology is a fabulous thing.


The sun is setting behind the jagged mountains; pink and gold reflect over the pool. I’m on one of the ridiculously small chairs outside, reading. I try to light a cigarette, but the lighter has a child-lock and I don’t understand how to work it. I notice my boyfriend stirring in bed through the adjacent window and I walk over. I stand in front of the glass door like I can’t see him and look at myself. I pull the strings of my bikini top and it falls to my feet. I lick a thumb and rub it over my nipple.

I have his attention.

I turn around and pull down my bottoms, spreading my legs a little and bending forward. I put the unlit cigarette in my mouth and begin stroking myself. I can see my reflection in the living room windows. That’s hot.

When I look over my shoulder, I see my boyfriend standing behind the glass, jacking off. I turn around to face him, lowering myself to a crouch, legs spread.

At climax, he opens the door, takes hold of my hair and cums on my sunglasses. A second later, I hear a click as he lights the cigarette still perched on my lips. I push my sunglasses up to the top of my head and he kisses my forehead before tossing the lighter on a side table and sliding the door shut again.

I turn around and face the desert. Such a spiritual place.

Image by AV Flox. Published in Black Heart Magazine, Winter 2007, Issue #4, pp. 40-41.


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