Note: This one’s sexually explicit and about me. Beware!
Auralism: the fetishization of sound
I’m an aural person. I enjoy hearing words, sounds, and songs. In sexual contexts, I’d much rather hear than see. There’s something about the unspooling of the voice as arousal builds that just gets me. My sub is quite vocal, and he’s gotten louder with training. I delight in the unconscious sounds that he makes, from little gasps to broad, ecstatic moans. And I admire them. It takes guts to be so noisy.
Sometimes, I have him send audio recordings. He always records himself when I allow him to orgasm. Several days ago, I gave him permission to play with himself, with one caveat: he would have to ‘talk’ the whole time. Now, to be clear, this was not a phone conversation. This was sexting; he would be talking to himself. I imagine that’s difficult, but he did it.
Somehow, just knowing that he was obediently narrating his desires to an empty room aroused me almost as much as hearing him in person. While he edged, I settled in and started to explore my own body–I ended up doing a little edging of my own. The thought of him panting as he forced himself to make words was almost enough to tip me over the edge, but I wanted to wait. I told him that I expected him to speak right up to the moment of orgasm.
I can’t capture sound in writing, but the result was delicious, right down to the fuzzy microphone feedback. He told me how much he loved being fucked by me, described what he wanted me to do to him, and begged to cum. His orgasm came like a record scratch, mid-sentence. Mine followed by mere seconds, nearly silent. And then he thanked me.
Silence is dignified, but sound is brave. Through hearing, I share in my sub’s bravery. Next time, maybe I’ll do the talking.
Catch up on the entire series here. I’m exploring some concepts that I started to work through in my essay “BDSM is Not Repentance” using this experimental semi-fantasy flash erotica series. It is not intended to model realistic and healthy approaches to penance, sex work, or even BDSM, but to inspire thought about how we use BDSM and what role, if any, it can play in true repentance. This installment (a bit long for flash) is a response to the Masturbation Monday blog meme.
After a few days’ thought, he washes the handkerchief and hangs it to dry on a tiny shoestring clothesline rigged across the Monstera plant. It seems like the right thing to do. He’s filled the first notebook with writing about anything and everything he can think of. His secretary looked at him like he had grown an extra head when he asked for paper (what she doesn’t know is that he first tried to filch it from the printer, accidentally breaking it in the process, and had to hire a repair worker from his own pocket as a result).
He knows the Dominant will visit this evening. The Agency sent a confirmation message yesterday. He felt relieved–he’d half-expected that they would drop him altogether after last session’s disaster–but somehow more nervous than he was before the first session. He is, as his mother would say, ‘a wreck,’ pacing the condo, fluffing pillows and such. He’s even set out a carafe of water and two glasses. He has a feeling that last week’s behavior won’t go unaddressed.
The Dominant appears in his doorway empty-handed. No implements, but the electric blue streak in their hair today makes the back of his neck prickle. Danger? Arousal? Who knows. He lets them in without fanfare. He wills his hand not to shake as he pours the water. The Dominant makes themself at home, once again going through their papers. He sits stiffly and waits. Finally, they fold the papers and take off their glasses.
“There’s something different about you today,” they say. “You’re all pulled in. Like your wings are folded to your sides.”
He looks down at his lap. He’s never thought of himself as a bird before.
“Tell me what you’re holding in.”
He looks up at the command in their tone. He senses that he has to answer. “I was disrespectful last week,” he says after a moment, in a small, brittle voice. He can’t say anymore, can’t bear to look at that furrow in their brow, so he focuses on the handkerchief, still hanging.
“Yes, you were,” the Dominant says after a beat. “I see that it’s affecting you.”
To his horror, tears spring to his eyes. Before anger can claw its way up through his shame, the Dominant speaks very quietly. “Good.” Good? Unable to trust his voice, he fights to sit up straighter, wills the tears to dry under the breeze of the air conditioner as he stares a hole through the cloth.
“I see that this is hard for you.” He can’t speak. “Here’s what I want to happen,” they say. “Look at me for a second.” He does. They point at the floor between their legs. “I want you to take this cushion and sit here, facing away from me.”
He doesn’t think to disobey. The floor creaks as he fits himself into the small space between sofa and coffee table, drawing his knees up. He feels the warmth of the Dominant’s legs on either side of him, the hard boots bracketing him. They’re a bit scuffed-looking up close.
A soft voice floats down from above. “Lean back a little.” As he does, he feels their hands strong on his shoulders, holding him in place. He swallows, again finding the handkerchief in his vision.
“You cleaned that for me, didn’t you,” the Dominant says, pressing on his shoulders gently. “Thank you. That pleases me.”
He nods. He feels surrounded, enfolded, so close to the ground. He tilts his head back, feels their shirt brush against his hair.
“I want to stroke your hair.”
“Mmyes,” he replies, feeling mellower in spite of the tears starting to track down his face. They cup the back of his head and massage, occasionally catching enough hair to tug on his scalp, just a little. One finger finds its way to his cheekbone, collecting a tear on its way.
“Good,” he hears again as his eyes fall closed. He stays there, resting in that pocket of warmth, for the remainder of the session.
Catch up on the entire series here. I’m exploring some concepts that I started to work through in my essay “BDSM is Not Repentance” using this experimental semi-fantasy flash erotica series. It is not intended to model realistic and healthy approaches to penance, sex work, or even BDSM, but to inspire thought about how we use BDSM and what role, if any, it can play in true repentance. This short installment is a response to the Masturbation Monday blog meme.
Note: this section contains some despairing thoughts and self-deprecation.
“Try again.” They said it and left with such startling coolness that he’s forgotten to be angry. He slumps in his chair, shell-shocked. Is this it? Of all the possible punishments he’s dreamed up, he never thought of this one. He so craved the biting heat of corporal punishment that he burned through the Dominant’s patience.
There’s no way for him to contact them directly, he realizes, even as explanations for his behavior begin to rise, some bullshit about serving and ignorance. They don’t matter. All correspondence goes through the Agency office. The Dominant can ignore him for as long as they want, even blacklist him. He can’t make them come back. And, he realizes, he wouldn’t.
His thoughts race as he sits there longer. Is the Dominant gone for good? Their shoulders were set as they walked out. He groans into his hands. Why did he have to push like that? Why couldn’t he just ‘chill,’ as his nieces say, and let the Dominant lead? The blue notebook lies on the coffee table. His own words taunt him, repeated back in that musical voice. He did write the same thing over and over, feeling so clever, so sure about ‘moving forward’. Maybe he can’t move forward at all. Maybe the Dominant knows it, and that’s why they’ve left him alone. He can’t even move from the chair. They might as well have chained him there, he thinks as his eyes rove the cavernous space, seeing nothing.
Then, he spots a flash of red and black. The Dominant’s handkerchief, folded with care–left on purpose? He looks up. The Monstera plant, watered. The notebook, within reach. Try again, they said. The man swallows. He reaches for the notebook, turns to a fresh page, and begins to write.
Read the entire series here. I’m exploring some concepts that I started to work through in my essay “BDSM is Not Repentance” using this experimental semi-fantasy flash erotica series. It is not intended to model realistic and healthy approaches to penance, sex work, or even BDSM, but to inspire thought about how we use BDSM and what role, if any, it can play in true repentance.
The next session begins one long week later, on a hot, humid evening. The doorbell rings at seven on the dot. This time, the man is prepared. So this Dominant is cautious? Okay. He’ll just have to be clearer and more confident about what he wants. With that in mind, he opens the door and folds to his knees without a word. The Dominant pauses, a wiry sketch of black and silver in the doorway, scraping their boots on the welcome mat. The man shifts restlessly, wishing he had a cushion. He looks up at the Dominant’s face.
They blink at him, expression neutral. “Are you going to let me by?”
“Uh, yeah.” Honorific intentions forgotten, he shuffle-rolls to the side to make room for the Dominant. Only when he clambers to his feet do they give him some hint of expression, a slight smile. He feels himself stand a little straighter.
They ask for water again, this time seated on the sofa. He fetches it with a flourish. Along with their papers (the same as last time?), they pull out a handkerchief to cushion the glass on the coffee table.
Are they going to do the same thing as before? He has to do something; this is ridiculous. He drops to his knees again, right next to the Dominant.
They look…displeased. What is wrong with them?
“I want you to sit back down in the chair while I go through these papers,” they say.
“What? Don’t Dominants like it when clients grovel?” It comes out more indignant than he intends. They raise their eyebrows over those steel-rimmed spectacles.
“Sorry,” he mutters, moving back up to the chair in a tangle of embarrassment and arousal.
“Thank you. First of all, we’re not a monolith.” They tick off the item on their fingers. “Second, I haven’t discussed a kneeling protocol with you. Third, I asked you to sit by me in the chair.”
The man’s breath hitches as it clicks into place. So his kneeling was seen as disobedience. Maybe they’re closer to punishing him than he thought; this could work.
Before he knows it, he’s fetching the blue notebook and asking the Dominant to read.
He watches their eyes narrow as they page through his entries, all some variation of “I don’t need to write in this; I just need to be punished so I can move on.”
He waits for the explosion, an order to ‘assume the position’ or something.
They close the notebook. “Would you rather make audio recordings?” they ask, smooth as ever. What? “I notice you said you want to move on,” they say, removing their glasses, “and yet you wrote the same thing over and over. Perhaps you need a different medium and more time.” More time?!
“No!” he blurts, wondering what parallel universe he’s just entered. “What do I have to do to get you to just punish me?!”
The Dominant’s eyes harden, like black marbles set in their face. They stand, temporarily looming over him with glass in hand. He braces in the chair, aroused but sickened by sudden fear of what he’s provoked. Maybe this is it, he thinks.
But the Dominant walks past him to pour their remaining water onto the thirsty Monstera plant. Frozen in place, he watches them walk to the front door.
Read all installments here. I’m exploring some concepts that I started to work through in my essay “BDSM is Not Repentance” using this experimental semi-fantasy flash erotica series. It is not intended to model realistic and healthy approaches to penance, sex work, or even BDSM, but to inspire thought about how we use BDSM and what role, if any, it can play in true repentance. This installment is a response to the Friday Flash blog meme.
He slams the microwave shut. He braced for days for this night to leave him bruised and welted. Instead, he’s remarkably…unmarked–maybe a bit saddle-sore from the stool. And now he’s fuming again. No whips and chains today. ‘You’ll have to earn them’? The Dominant left not long after saying those words, sliding that notebook toward him with a knowing smile. Like a perverse Mister Rogers, they re-laced their boots, rattling off instructions for ‘self-aftercare’ or something in dulcet tones. As if they’d actually done a scene, and not just sat there drinking water.
The stool slides with a horrible screech as he shoves it back under the island. He eyes the notebook with suspicion but doesn’t pick it up. He hasn’t used anything like that since the eighties. Nice joke, but why go back? Seems his laptop updates every other day. That’s how he likes it.
His hands shake as he puts the empty water glasses in the sink. He scowls at himself. Time to get a grip.
The space fills with the smell of buffalo sauce, steaming and popping with heat. He throws himself onto the sofa and bites into the first wing, not caring how hot it is. The notebook still sits on the counter. He soldiers through the wings, letting their untempered spice overwhelm his anger.
By the time he’s blotting the cushions where juices have splattered, he’s more curious than anything. All but jogging back to the island, he opens the notebook. His stomach gives an unpleasant flip when he sees writing inside. “Welcome, Penitent,” it reads in fine, slanted writing. “Here’s where you’ll write about what brought you here. Write something every day until our next session. I won’t read it unless you ask me to, but you will write. Buen Camino!” They want him to keep…a diary? He flushes. ‘Diaries are for girls!,’ a little voice pipes up in the back of his mind. ‘Travel journal’ is more apt, he thinks, even though this is unnecessary.
He will write? A new surge of anger wells up at the thought. He doesn’t need diaries or journals; what he needs is good old-fashioned corporal punishment. He’ll just put the notebook away somewhere and give it back next time. He pauses. Then, he pulls out the pen tucked in its binding. In glistening purple ink, he writes “I don’t need to write in this.” After a beat, he adds “sir.” Signing and dating, he claps it shut. He knows what to do. He’s going to show that Dominant exactly what he needs.
Read the first series installment of this semi-fantasy flash erotica series here. I anticipate this’ll be a slow-burning series, gentle readers. 😉 This fiction explores some concepts that I started to work through in my essay “BDSM is Not Repentance.” It is not intended to model realistic and healthy approaches to penance, sex work, or even BDSM, but to inspire thought about how we use BDSM and what role, if any, it can play in true repentance. This installment is a response to the Wicked Wednesday blog meme. For some of my more realistic short erotica, see “Stay Like This.”
His mouth runs dry, stomach twisting. Penance. They? Vague memories of workplace sensitivity trainings ooze through his molasses mind. She–they–shake out their umbrella and sling a black messenger bag off their shoulder.
He stutters “Are these–”
Now, they grin outright, nodding. “The implements of correction.” Their voice is soft and low, cello-like.
“Uh,” he replies eloquently, still stuck in place. So much for his plan to fall dramatically to his knees in greeting. That idea seemed so much more intuitive in theory. He looks down at her–their–shoes. No stilettos here, just chunky black boots like his teenage nieces wear. Or like the sisters in his parish growing up used to wear. Or army boots. What a weird overlap.
“Look up, please,” they say. He does.
“Let’s have a little chat. Let me get these wet things off, and we’ll sit at the island, alright?”
“Alright…Miss?” He winces as it comes out.
“Actually, I prefer Sir,” they reply, dark eyes gleaming. “But we don’t need to worry about that right now.”
But I’m not attracted to… he thinks as he juggles their belongings to the closet.
He turns back to them, already perched on a stool and unlacing their boots to reveal socks marked “Ineffable.” Their movements are purposeful and contained, not at all like the whip-slinger he expected. This Dominant wipes rain off their steel-rimmed glasses.
What on Earth. He must have stood there a little too long, as the Dominant–or interrogator?–raps the island’s granite top with their glasses case.
He feels himself step forward, blushing. It’s a move he’s used on subordinates before, summoning. Whatever, he thinks, in a fit of pride. His steps sound loud on the wooden floor, even louder when he arranges himself on the stool that’s really too small for him.
They watch him quietly. Like a lightning rod that deflects noise.
He tries for board room-level confidence, pasting a dime-toothed smile onto his face. “Well, you found me,” he says with a lame little chuckle.
They smile. “Yes, I did,” they say, pulling some papers out of their bag. Instead of passing them over to him, they adjust their glasses and start to read silently to themself, annotating with a red gel pen.
For what feels like a long time, they leave him with nothing but the sound of the rain. He crosses his arms. What does this person expect from me? Shouldn’t I be tied up by now? Won’t this ‘Dominant’ do his-her-their job? He feels the words build up inside him, rushing to the surface like hot magma.
“I’ll have a glass of water, please,” the Dominant says, oblivious. That knocks the wind right out of his sails. He gets up robotically to fill a glass with ice. And then he gets one for himself.
[Image description: Photo is of a pair of lace-up black leather boots.]
Hello, Readers! I’ve decided to explore some of the ideas I discussed in my recent essay “BDSM is Not Repentance” through fiction. This is the first part of an experimental semi-fantasy flash erotica series. It is not intended to model realistic or healthy approaches to penance, sex work, or even BDSM, but to inspire thought about how we use BDSM and what role, if any, it can play in true repentance. This first installment is part of the Masturbation Monday blog meme sponsored by Kayla Lords.
He runs his hand through salt-and-pepper hair, drums fingers on his desk to drown out the feeble patter of rain. He grimaces at the cleaning he’s done. She might not show, he thinks. If this day turns out to be a waste of his time and money, he’s leaving a one-star Yelp review and jerking off to Brazzers.
He was very clear in his inquiry letter to the Agency: he wants to suffer for his actions. He filled out their required spreadsheet of soft and hard limits in a bluster of clacking keys; yes to humiliation, yes to cock-and-ball torture, no to tickling, yes to single-tail, etc.
He selected a generous three-day time window, signed off with his electronic signature, and procured his background check. Now, it’s just a question of when; it has to be some time today. He waits for her, whomever she is, to waltz into his spartan condo, order him to his knees and slap him around, make him feel powerless. That’s fine. More than fine.
He chose the “mystery” option to let the Agency assign someone to him, but he’s poked around enough online to have a pretty good idea what she’ll be like: a goddess in stilettos, dark, streamlined slickness over icy pale skin. She’ll beat the devil right out of him…if she shows up. The thought shoots straight down to his cock, and he just catches his hand straying down his khakis. He groans, irritation rising in tandem with arousal.
Just as he’s about to unplug the air freshener and heat up the leftover buffalo wings, someone knocks at the door. He freezes. Somehow, his legs carry him over. He peers through the peep hole at a short, slight woman with asymmetrical hair and a rainbow umbrella. She must be lost, he thinks, wondering whether she’ll go away if he ignores her. But he opens the door. She smiles at him. Her eyes crinkle at the corners. Staticy heat skitters through him, the sensation of thawing after a trudge through the snow, as he realizes that this person isn’t lost at all. “Hello,” she says. “My pronouns are they/them/theirs, and I’m in charge of your penance today.”
[Image description: Photo is an abstract close-up of a black leather boot on pink satin.]
This post was written for the Wicked Wednesday erotica blogging meme, heavily based on a real play experience I had with my sub. This one’s explicit, folks! Content: D/s, hand spanking, sexual play, ‘public’ nudity, and consensual boundary-pushing
We’re slightly mellow already when we arrive at the dungeon–at home, I worked him up to two prostate orgasms as he lay on his back, panting.
The red light casts a velvety glow over everyone in the play space. Tonight’s guests seek a more sensual energy than usual–our low-key sensual spanking scene will fit right in. We forego the shiny padded spanking benches for a utilitarian play mat against the wall.
I order him to strip. He’s still a bit sheepish about public nudity, so I remove my shirt and bra in solidarity. I think it will feel awkward, but it doesn’t; it just feels like a fact of life. My sub sets himself up on all fours, presenting himself for my touch, my ‘handling’.
It always takes me a couple of minutes to settle into a scene, especially in a communal space; I smile and shrug at my friend across the room as I sit down on the mat, as if to say “Yep, here it is…spanking. *Jazz hands.*”
My sub waits. I let my hands wander over his back, tracing delicately over his ass, which he has shaved for me (when in doubt, I get handsy). And then, I swing back and hit. And hit again, cupping my palm. I wait. He hums. This is one of his favorite activities. I feel him warming as I rub his cheeks rosy. Another smack, harder. I need more sound, leaning over his body to get closer to his face. I want to hear his moans mingle with the hypnotic dungeon music.
I wrap an arm around him as I reel back for another slap, leveraging his body to crash back into my spanking hand. We find a rhythm. He looks up sometimes, making eye contact with the person getting fucked on the swinging bed several feet away.
Sometimes, I catch his balls, sending him lurching forward. He always puts himself back in my palm, whimpering when I pause my onslaught to play with his hard cock. When I think he’s had enough, I stop. He eases himself up in a daze of pleasure, sitting for a moment with his legs splayed out. He reaches for his clothes. “No,” I say, pinning him to my side as I put one hand on his thigh. “Stay like this a little longer.” Suddenly embarrassed again, he obeys, hands at his sides on the mat and legs open to reveal his still half-hard cock to any onlookers.
There’s a reason this feels so vulnerable for my sub; it’s rare for a cis man to get fully nude in this space. I could reach over, stroke him hard, wipe out his excruciating awareness with the sweet oblivion of touch. But I don’t. Instead, we sit like that for a few minutes while I tell him how proud I am of his bravery, my protective arm around his shoulder. We make a pocket of stillness amid a riot of play.
Back at my place later that night, he will practically leap onto my bed, moaning when I start hitting him with my belt, rutting back against my hips as I press him forward. He’ll look back in wordless arousal and spread himself for me. I’ll slam him into the mattress with enough force to make the bed squeak, the simulation of fucking just as arousing as the real thing. I will claim him with murmurs and growls of ownership. But nothing proves my ownership more, and nothing makes my pride in him burn as brightly as those naked minutes we spend just sitting there on the dungeon floor.