Monday, November 19, 2012

This is important and exciting

Lana Wachowski has made her first-ever public speech, at the annual Human Rights Campaign gala. For anyone living in a cave, Lana and her brother Andy directed the Matrix trilogy, among other things, they never do press, and Lana is transgender. So this is a coming-out speech for her in several different ways. She's funny and heartbreaking and affirming all at once, and her message is one for everybody, not just TG's.

The video doesn't seem to be embeddable for Blogger, but you can follow this link to have a look. Go Lana!

Wednesday, November 14, 2012

Count the fetishes

Here's another one of those "look what I found when I wasn't looking for it" things. This is one sculpture from the Fountain of Neptune in Bologna. I found a smaller version of this shot (as well as a side view) on guilty-pleasure site Oddee, then a much larger and more satisfying version of the frontal shot on a blog about a woman's vacation in Italy. I want to give her credit for the image, but at the same time I feel like it would be wrong to link her sweet vanilla blog to mine; so I'll just remind you that Google Is Your Friend (as is Google Image Search).

In the meantime, while Oddee and the sweet vanilla blogger are amazed that this statue lactates, I'm boggled by her total pose, including her outthrust hips, the strap around her midsection, whatever it is she's grinding on, and the suggestion of scales on her legs. I'm imagining an MC story where she's ensnared by Dagon and turned, mid-orgasm, into a living statue.

Sunday, November 11, 2012

On display

There's a train track just behind where I live. I've grown used to the whistle and the way the building shakes, and sometimes I even use them to give an added kick to my "morning" Virtual Hypnotist program. As I'm sagging there in my chair, deep in trance, I sometimes feel the rumble of a train going by (I can't actually hear it with my earbuds in place). Then I tell myself the rumbles are actually explosions: my friends know I've been captured by an evil brainwasher and they're trying to rescue me. Unfortunately for them, I'm too far gone to save. I'm bound in place by nothing more than a flashing monitor and the oh-so-thin cord of my earbuds. I could escape so easily, if only my brain weren't bound.

After awhile - and this is the most important part - my would-be rescuers break into the bunker far enough to see me in my chair. They can't reach me, because my Mistress is still in control, and they'd never have gotten this far if she hadn't allowed it. But they can see me.

I'd been describing myself as a closet exhibitionist years before I learned anyone else used the term. It's a central part of my fetish: the idea of being put on display, sometimes as a brainwashed slave whom my friends are powerless to help, and sometimes as a drone who's been so thoroughly depersonalized that people don't even realize she's human.

The train came by this morning while I was running my VH session, and the extra enjoyment it provided left me wanting to reread trilby's else's Dark Forest. I did, and it didn't disappoint. If ever a story deserved the "exhibitionism" code, it's "Dark Forest." I sooo want to be Veronica, or better yet, Bridget. And thanks to my VH "morning" program, I at least know what Bridget's stare feels like. I stared that way again as I was reading the story.

Later I scrounged through my folders of saved images, trying to find something suitable for this post, but I couldn't settle on just one. So here are three photos, all came from Model Mayhem. From left to right, we have shots by Steve Prue, Uberdog, and Rebecca's Rubber Room.

Saturday, November 3, 2012

Something beautiful

I'm in the mood for something soft and beautiful today, so here's a love scene from Tipping the Velvet, by Sarah Waters. Just for the record, I'm not leaving anything out; the ellipses are there in the book.

The picture at right (which doesn't really depict the scene from the story) is by Eyeworks. The models are Sindel Chaos and Lee Loo.

And then, as if through some occult power of its own, the space between our lips seemed to grow small, and then to vanish: and we were kissing. She lifted her hand to touch the corner of my mouth; and then her fingers came between our pressing lips - they tasted, still, of sugar. And then I began to shake so hard I had to clench my fists and say to myself, 'Stop shaking, can't you? She'll think you've never been kissed before, at all!'

When I raised my hands to her, however, I found that she was shaking just as badly; and when, after a moment, I moved my fingers from her throat to the swell of her breasts, she twitched like a fish - then smiled, and leaned closer to me. 'Press me harder!' she said.

We fell back together upon the bed, then - it shifted another inch across the carpet, on its wheels - and I undid the buttons of her shirt and pressed my face to her bosom, and sucked at one of her nipples, through the cotton of her chemise, till the nipple grew hard and she began to stiffen and pant. She put her hands to my head again, and lifted me to where she could kiss me; I lay and moved upon her, and felt her move beneath me, felt her breasts against my own, till I knew I should come, or faint - but then she turned me, and raised my skirt, and put her hand between my legs, and stroked so slowly, so lightly, so teasingly, I hoped I might never come at all...

At last, I felt her hand settle at the very wettest part of me, and she breathed against my ear. "Do you care for it,' she murmured then, 'inside?' The question was such a gentle, such a gallant one, I almost wept. 'Oh!' I said, and again she kissed me; and after a moment I felt her move within me, first with one finger, then with two, I guessed, then three...At last, after a second's pressure, she had her hand in me up to the wrist. I think I called out - I think I shivered and panted and called out, to feel the subtle twisting of her fist, the curling and uncurling of her sweet fingers, beneath my womb...

When I reached my crisis, I felt a gush, and I found that I had wet her arm, with my spendings, from fingertip to elbow - and that she had come, out of a kind of sympathy, and lay weak and heavy against me, with her own skirts damp. She drew her hand free - making me shiver anew - and I seized it and held it, and pulled her face to me and kissed her; and then we lay very quietly with our limbs pressed hard together until, like cooling engines, we ceased our pulsings and grew still.