Showing posts with label needles. Show all posts
Showing posts with label needles. Show all posts
Sunday, September 30, 2012
Monday, September 20, 2010
Drilling For Oil
"It's like drilling for oil."
That's what I think to myself as I poke at the tip of his cock with the sharp point of a needle. You have to hit exactly the right spot at exactly the right depth to get what you want.
Poke here, you just get a little red spot. Poke there, nothing at all. Poke there and you get a gusher, not quite what you want, either. But what about there, just there, little bit over...just a little deeper. A-ha! Got it!
What am I doing?
I am holding this man-- my playmate-- my lover-- by the shaft of his cock and I'm hurting him. Well that's nothing new; but this time I'm deliberating wounding him, intentionally trying to make him bleed.
Why would I do such a thing?
Because he wants me to. Because he needs me to. He has to give me this, and so I take it from him, happily and eagerly.
It is the day before the equinox and once again, unknowingly, he's stepped into the role of the Corn King; he who dies to bring new life to the crops next spring. His pain, his blood, his come, his very life force become a sacrifice offered up to me, and perhaps to something greater.
We revel in it, celebrating the joy of each other and of being alive.
Later in the day it rains. I stand on my patio, savoring the smell and the sound of the showers drenching the earth. There's a quiet peace, and a feeling of connectedness, as if I am the latest link in a chain stretching all the way back through history. The daughter of the house has at last come home and the old traditions are made new again.
For a moment, it's as if the rain understands these things, as if the storm is a gift given in exchange for the gifts that we gave.
I go inside, pour a drink, light a candle, collect my silent thoughts before bringing the glass to my lips.
It was a very good day.
Lady Koregan
That's what I think to myself as I poke at the tip of his cock with the sharp point of a needle. You have to hit exactly the right spot at exactly the right depth to get what you want.
Poke here, you just get a little red spot. Poke there, nothing at all. Poke there and you get a gusher, not quite what you want, either. But what about there, just there, little bit over...just a little deeper. A-ha! Got it!
What am I doing?
I am holding this man-- my playmate-- my lover-- by the shaft of his cock and I'm hurting him. Well that's nothing new; but this time I'm deliberating wounding him, intentionally trying to make him bleed.
Why would I do such a thing?
Because he wants me to. Because he needs me to. He has to give me this, and so I take it from him, happily and eagerly.
It is the day before the equinox and once again, unknowingly, he's stepped into the role of the Corn King; he who dies to bring new life to the crops next spring. His pain, his blood, his come, his very life force become a sacrifice offered up to me, and perhaps to something greater.
We revel in it, celebrating the joy of each other and of being alive.
Later in the day it rains. I stand on my patio, savoring the smell and the sound of the showers drenching the earth. There's a quiet peace, and a feeling of connectedness, as if I am the latest link in a chain stretching all the way back through history. The daughter of the house has at last come home and the old traditions are made new again.
For a moment, it's as if the rain understands these things, as if the storm is a gift given in exchange for the gifts that we gave.
I go inside, pour a drink, light a candle, collect my silent thoughts before bringing the glass to my lips.
It was a very good day.
Lady Koregan
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