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Monday, September 01, 2008
From Fetish Adventures
This is a selection of Duyen's essays from "Fetish Adventures," her first blog, which she no longer maintains.
Advice From A Former Prostitute
You've probably noticed that I haven't published many fantasies lately. That's because you haven't been sending me yours! I do get mail, but not the sort of mail I'd hoped for when I opened Fetish Adventures for "business."
No, the sort of mail I've been getting is almost all requests for advice.
What sort of advice? This sort:
My husband and I have been married X years, and have been together for Y. For the last Z years our sex life has been occasional and humdrum. I've pretty much lost interest in it. But he hasn't said anything much, and I've begun to wonder whether he's been seeking fulfillment from other women. Could you please tell me what I can do to keep him from patronizing a woman like yourself?
That's not a quote. It's more of a blend of many letters I've received. They make me want to cry. These women have devoted husbands. Most of them have children. They almost all have comfortable homes and no real worries for their futures. But they're worried about competition from me!
Ladies, why are you wasting your sexual gifts? Boredom is no excuse. Boredom is a sign that you've become boring. Fatigue is no excuse. Fatigue in a young or middle-aged woman is almost always a symptom of lack of exercise. Menopause is no excuse. Menopause helps to make sex carefree!
Maybe he's not helping as he should, but you can't control him; you can only control you. If you're worried that he's finding solace and release in the arms of a professional, the one and only thing you can do is show him a superior alternative.
A professional woman, such as I once was, must divide her time and attention among many men. She can't fall in love with any one's body, or make a point of adapting herself to what any one of her clients really likes. You don't have that problem! It's a huge advantage; why aren't you making use of it?
If you're a Christian, you already know that you're supposed to love others as you love yourself. (If you're not a Christian, become one!) Can you think of anyone it's more important to love, wholeheartedly and without holding back, than the man who's committed his life to you? Others receive your affection as a gift; your husband has earned it.
Love your man. Do it consciously.
Teach yourself to love him. Teach yourself to admire his grace, his competence, his generosity, his responsibility. Teach yourself to marvel at his gift of himself to you. Most husbands deserve the love of their wives. If yours doesn't, are you certain it's because of his failings rather than your unreasonable expectations...or your neglect?
Teach yourself to love his body. Glory in it! It's a machine of great strength and marvelous precision. It can do so many things! It can bring you, and him, the most exquisite of pleasures, if you'll take the time to learn it.
Study his body, from head to toe.
Teach yourself to love his face, most especially his eyes. The eyes are the windows of the soul; get him to look into yours, and look straight back into his, candidly, without defense or pretense. Hold him that way for as long as you can. You won't believe the treasures you'll find that way.
Teach yourself to love his embrace. Even a small man is unbelievably powerful across the chest and shoulders. He could crush you in his arms, stop your heart and your lungs and leave you to die...but he doesn't. Why not? Why does he hold you as if you were the most precious thing on Earth? Could it be that he really feels that way?
Teach yourself to love his aroma. Men get pretty stinky when they've been working hard or exercising, but when they're clean and relaxed, their musk is the most heavenly of scents. Bury your face in his chest and inhale deeply. That's the aromatic signature of the man who loves you, who'd lay down his life to protect you and your children from harm. Wallow in it!
Teach yourself to love his cock.
Coax him into your bedroom, lay him out on your marital bed, and undo his drawers. Slide off his pants and his undies and ponder the organ that distinguishes him from you. Why not? Believe me, he spends more time thinking about your pussy than you've ever imagined. Reply to his fascination in kind.
That device is meant to fit inside you, snugly and comfortably. It's shaped so that as he thrusts and withdraws, it will tickle all your most erogenous parts. When he comes, it will emit a seed that will seek out your eggs and, if conditions are right, will bring new life into the world...life the two of you can nurture and love together.
Kiss it. Lick it. Suck on it. Learn to love how it feels in your mouth, the shape of the spongy head against your palate and tongue. Let the texture, the taste, and the smell of him pervade your senses. Learn to make him gasp and spasm from uncontrollable pleasure.
Let him surge and writhe beneath you. Feel his hands at the sides of your head, caressing and urging you on. He is helpless before your power; use it wisely.
When he raises his hips in response to your efforts, slip a hand underneath his bottom and part his buttocks. Probe for his anus, gently, teasingly. Work it open with a fingertip. Ease that finger gradually into him and find his prostate. Press on it gently, and enjoy the delicate flavor of his pre-come.
Deny him nothing. Make him come in your mouth. Hold him there as he spurts, stroke his prostate gently, and swallow his seed. Teach him to accept your mastery of his body, as you've accepted the power and fertility of his.
A wife who regularly brings her husband to orgasm with her mouth need never fear to lose him. He will worship her as a goddess of love. She will never forget the sense of power or ownership the act brings.
Unless he's very old, he will recover quickly. Take him into your body and revel in the sense of union. Where the body goes, the soul will follow.
Love your man.
When you have endless days and nights for such explorations, when you can celebrate and revel in one another at will in all these ways, when you know his body, mind, and heart as completely as a true and complete union like this makes possible...why would you fear to lose him to the importunings of a woman for hire?
And if you can spare the time, pity me. Pity the poor Vietnamese girl who has none of these things...only a collection of vague memories...memories of the attentions of other women's men...and of one man, then without a wife, for whom I would give all I possess.
Love isn't just something you feel. It's also something you do. -- My beloved.
Dreaming
Most people dream poorly. They have no idea how to fantasize.
I have heard many men spin out their fantasies. I like men, I love their strength, their energy, and their bodies, but most have no imagination. They dream of simple conquests, simple pleasures. Their fantasies nearly always bore me.
Women tend to keep their fantasies to themselves, even from other women. A real intimacy among women, the sort that presents no bounds of any sort, is rare. We think too much of competing with one another over an imagined him. It's a pity. There's no need, and the rewards of bosom friends are too rich to be spurned this way.
Since I opened Fetish Adventures, I've heard from only three people. I had hoped for more, but I am not surprised. Who am I? Whose friend am I? Why trust me? Who else will hear whatever is revealed to me? These are high mountains to climb when you are thinking of telling a stranger something as revealing as your erotic fantasies.
But I can dream, too. I've had practice.
I dream of the things I want but don't have, as many people do. I also dream of the things I have had and no longer do. And I dream of those things I don't have, but could, and soon might, or will.
I have no man. I could have one, if I chose. I'm young enough, and attractive enough, to draw a crowd of suitors even here in Los Angeles, where beauty is common. I don't reveal my past to men I might be interested in, so they have no reason to be alarmed, at least not at first. But I'm patient, and very choosy. So I smile, and flirt, and date, and wait.
And I dream.
He doesn't need to be tall, or muscular, or movie-star handsome. He might be short and slight and average-looking. But he must be kind. He must be gentle. And he must be utterly devoted to me. I will be his mistress, upon whose pleasure he will wait, and he will be my master, whose whims are all I seek to serve.
We will submit to one another completely.
I dream of awaiting him at the close of a workday. I am in our hot tub, head lolling back, completely relaxed. On the stand beside the tub are two stemmed glasses and a bottle of wine nestled in crushed ice. I hear the front door open and close, his briefcase hitting the floor, and his quick footsteps toward our bedroom suite. He finds me at my ease, smiling up at him.
I beckon him to join me. He disrobes at once, pours wine for us both, and sits beside me in the tub. I pull his arm around me and lean against him, my head against his chest.
We savor the wine and do not speak.
Presently we arise, dry ourselves, and move to our bed. He seats me at the edge, then presses me back and strokes my calves and thighs with his fingertips. I shiver at his touch, so light, so tender. My legs move apart of their own will, exposing my pussy. He gives them a final stroke, ending at my toes, and kneels before me.
I shave my pussy regularly. I keep it smooth, entirely free of hair. I know he likes it that way, and I love what he does to me.
"May I?" he says.
I nod assent.
He lowers his head to my mound and probes between my labia with his tongue. I arch toward him, and his tongue strokes upward, passing across my clitoris. The bolt of pleasure that passes through me calls forth my fluids. I gasp and press myself against him. He laves me slowly, thoroughly, with evident pleasure, and I gasp and shudder again.
He rises and slips his hands beneath my bottom, cupping and caressing the soft flesh. I squirm against his touch as his thumbs slip between my legs, teasing more moisture from me.
He shaves his groin too. He knows I like it that way, and he loves what I do to him. I run my fingertips over the smooth skin and reach for his penis. It's straight and hard.
"I want you in my mouth," I say.
He nods and stretches out beside me. I reverse myself and slide my body over his, until my mound is once again over his mouth and the head of his penis bobs before my lips. A drop of clear fluid swells from the orifice. I reach for it with my tongue. The ambrosia of the gods could not taste as good.
I take the shaft in my hand and capture the head between my lips. He moans against my pussy, drawing forth still more of my fluids.
The head is smooth, velvety and warm against my lips. I search for the ridge with my tongue and caress it in a slow, circular stroke. I cup his balls in my free hand and jiggle them very gently, and he moans and surges again. His hands travel up and down my back, massaging, probing and exploring.
His body has become my world, and mine has become his.
He comes in a long, drawn-out shudder, every muscle tightening slowly to a peak that seems to last an hour. Even his balls contract and tighten in my hand. I drain his seed from him eagerly, allowing its salt and musk to pervade my senses before I swallow it.
He clutches my ass and presses me against his face, his tongue firm and slick on my clitoris, and I join him in ecstasy.
There will be no words for a while. There will only be warmth in the cool, dim light of evening. And later...ahhh, later...
To be continued.
Moments Snatched From Fantasy
There are moments in every woman's life when she allows herself to drift, ever so gently, through lands of might-have-been and might-yet-be. Some women must, for it's all we have.
I've just turned thirty-two. I have a past that most men would say disqualifies me from becoming a wife. I can't bear children. And if I must be candid, I'm not sure I'd be good at being a mother, anyway.
But I can dream, and of course I do.
There's a man I love so deeply that I'd die for him, if he were to ask it. I know I can never have him, he's a husband and father already. But I have days when I can think of nothing else.
I have days when seeing a face vaguely similar to his is enough to send me into reverie. Today was one such day.
The director of marketing at one of my larger clients asked for a lunch meeting today. Of course I agreed. When I arrived at the restaurant he'd chosen, I found that he'd brought an associate, a man of about my age he introduced as "my new market-development prodigy Paul."
Paul rose and smiled shyly. He was of middle height, slender, with fluid movements. His boyish face was clean shaven; his hair and nails were neatly trimmed. He put out his hand, and I took it. A current of pure desire flowed between us. When I looked into his eyes, I knew he felt it as strongly as I.
He looked like what my hopeless love might have looked like at that age: vibrant, confident before any challenge and eager to prove his powers for all the world to see, but generous, gentle, and kind. I sneaked a peek at his left hand. There was no ring upon it.
"Very pleased to meet you," he murmured.
And I was off.
He returned home that afternoon filled with the dual pleasures of a day's worthy achievements and the satisfaction of justly earned repose. He locked the door behind him, tossed his briefcase into a corner, shrugged off his suit jacket, and emitted a complex whistle, a warble that might have come from a songbird of special breed. He paused, gave the whistle twice more, and waited.
She descended the stairs in stately fashion, each step carefully measured. Her heels clicked delicately upon the tiled steps. When she came fully into sight, his breath came short.
She'd chosen the red ensemble for that evening: a deep red silk teddy, matching stockings, and a pair of red stiletto heeled pumps. She'd topped off the outfit with a red beret, perched rakishly on her head, and a red carnation tucked over her left ear. She halted before him and turned half-profile, one leg drawn up slightly to point the toe of her pump at his heart.
"Was it you who called and told me to be ready?" she said throatily.
His own mouth had gone dry. "I believe it was," he husked. "Are you ready?"
She cocked an eyebrow. "For anything, dear."
He spread his arms. She flowed into them, guided him with gentle pressure to their couch and pressed him down upon it, undoing his buttons as she went.
She undid his belt and slid his trousers away as he lay back. "Was it a stressful day?"
"About as usual," he said, stretching his arms over his head. "But I've locked it away for now. And yourself?"
"Terrible," she murmured as she tugged off his briefs. "I was tormented by visions of men's bodies. Tall men, short men, fat men, thin men, old men and young men. All day long, without respite."
"That doesn't sound too terrible," he said. "What made it so bad?"
Her hands glided lightly over his chest, barely disturbing the downy hair there, and traveled steadily southward. "None of them was you." Her fingertips began an elaborate dance over his belly and thighs, making him spasm and moan.
"I see," he said, his breath becoming ragged. "And now that you have the genuine article at your disposal?"
She ran one fingernail along the line that divided his ball sac while another flirted with the ridge around his glans. "Hmmm, let's see. I could fix you a light dinner and go back to my romance novel..."
"Or?"
"...or I could turn on the television to some cooking shows while you play with your computer..." She bent lower and allowed her breath to waft over his penis, warming and teasing it to full hardness.
"Or?"
"...or I could pull your heart and soul out through your cock."
"Which of those possibilities appeals to you most?" he gasped.
"The third one," she said, as her lips closed over him.
"Excuse me, Miss...?"
I returned to reality. "Oh! Yes? Excuse me, please. I was struck by an unexpected idea."
Paul cocked an eyebrow. "Something profitable?"
I smiled. "Perhaps we'll discuss it later."
He had not released my hand. "I'd like that."
"So would I."
There Isn't Much...
...that compares to true devotion.
Devotion must include sexual devotion. You must be committed to giving your love all the pleasure he can stand. Maybe even a little more.
I've been "without" for a long time now. I've known love. I've known total devotion, and total surrender, and the indescribable ecstasy they bring. It left me unable to settle for anything less. But I can tell you what it was like...what it might be like for you, should you be fortunate enough to find it for yourself.
Devotion that concedes all things, retains no barriers, and commits entirely to the glorification of the beloved, brings two people as close to God as they can come in this world. The man I love once told me that pregnancy goes beyond it. I didn't ask him why he thought he would know; he's a serious sort, and might have taken it badly.
Ladies, you will know when someone is sexually devoted to you. He'll make a point of learning what pleases you, down to the smallest detail. And he'll do it all, without exception or reservation. And you will be moved to do the same for him.
He will caress you from head to toe: slowly, lovingly, without demands for reciprocation. He won't ask you where you want to be loved; he'll find your special places for himself. And he'll never forget them.
He will bring all his assets to the amplification of your pleasure: mouth, hands, body and cock. You will feel him along the whole length of your body, for his only thought will be to please you. You will be the whole of his world.
You will respond to his gifts without needing to think about why, where, or how.
Are you shy about some part of your body? He will know. Shyness is the visible face of repressed sexual fantasy; it's his clue that that part of you yearns for special homage. It won't matter what it is: mouth, eyes, ears, neck, breasts, navel, cunt, ass, thighs, calves or toes. He will find it, and minister to it until you beg him for relief.
He will spare you nothing. He will use your shyness to deliver you into a word of abandon you'd never before suspected.
You will resist. You will pretend that what he's offered is the exact opposite of what you really want. He'll know it's make-believe. He will tease your desire forward. The whole of the body is erogenous, and any mature man will know it. He will refuse you the refuge of your pretended reticence.
You will surrender to him. He will possess you utterly, all pretenses destroyed. You, in turn, will own him.
There is nothing to match it.
Give yourself to him. All of you. Do his attentions evoke your embarrassment? That's exactly the time to say to yourself, "I am no longer mine alone. I am his," and let him work his will upon you. Surrender is the most delicious of all sensations, if done with love.
Let him do as he will. Revel in it. Revel in being the object of his worship. Accept his homage. Yield to it in the certainty that you've earned it, simply by being who you are: the woman he loves.
Your chance to reciprocate will come. Rise to the occasion. Find his innermost secrets, his sanctum sanctorum, and invade it. Compel him to yield to you, as he compelled you to yield to him. Bring him to the heights of pleasure, just as he brought you.
Herein lies your greatest challenge, for men are pleasure-averse. They distrust it. It distracts them. No matter what they say, nearly all of them are uninterested in ecstasy, with you or anyone else. They merely want relief, and will happily "settle" for it.
I know this for a fact. I learned it in the hardest of schools. But if you want to own your man, for now and always, you must press beyond it.
Find his secret places, and torment him there. Be merciless.
Eventually, he will yield to you. It might take a while. Sometimes, one session is not enough, But yield he will, if you refuse to relent.
Make him yield himself to you, as you yielded yourself to him.
When he comes, capture it: with your hand if you must, but preferably with your mouth. Show it to him. Share it with him. It will make you one.
And in the fullness of time, when his love creates a new life within you, say to him, "This is mine, as you are, As you have been from our first days, You cannot escape, for in me there is a part of you that you cannot revoke: the living fruit of our love."
And think once more of those days of pleasure, surrender, and grace.
There Is Nothing...
...nothing that compares to the realization that someone loves you.
Of course, there are many ways one can stumble into that knowledge. Sometimes, the joy of the thing is mixed with a profound sorrow. It's been that way for me. But if you're lucky, your discovery might be unmixed.
The best way to learn it is in bed.
I know a fair number of married women. Most of them are unhappy. Why? Because they're convinced no one loves them. I can't be sure they're wrong, but I'm pretty confident they are. I've met their husbands, you see.
Perhaps their men are inept, or hesitant about expressing themselves physically.
Men are not naturally inclined toward pleasure. In fact, they distrust it. It tempts them to surrender the thing they prize most greatly: their self-control. I learned that in the hardest of schools. It's as true here in America, after your so-called sexual revolution, as it was in Vietnam.
My beloved has written some wonderful fiction about the discovery of love. Try this one, or this one. He understands; most men don't. It would be nice if his wife knew what a jewel he is. She doesn't, of course. It's true that most women don't appreciate their husbands adequately, but in her case, the matter is more profound. I can't say more without violating a confidence.
But I doubt that even he, jewel though he is, could express his love for her physically without having to fight past a high wall of inhibition. It might be the heart of their problem.
I suspect it's at the heart of many men's marital problems. They project their unease about pleasure onto their women. They don't realize that women need to be worshipped.
Yes, I mean that exactly as it appears.
How do you worship your woman? It's simple: you devote yourself to her pleasure, totally, without reservation.
It's simple, but for most men it's not easy. Men tend to think of sex as a relief of need. It's a terrible thing, a renunciation of one of the highest joys available to a human being in this life. But it's very common.
A man utterly devoted to his woman's pleasure dedicates himself to seeking out its avenues. He explores her body, testing it at at every point for erotic response. He does not shy back from anything she might enjoy -- and he does not insist upon anything she dislikes.
A woman's body contains many erogenous zones. The obvious ones are at the openings: lips, ears, nipples, navel, cunt, and anus. If she is clean at all those points -- and if she isn't, why not? -- he will minister to her there naturally, for her excitement will fuel his own. But too many men stop there, not realizing that there are more subtle pleasures to be unleashed.
The whole track of the female spine is erogenous. A feather touch can evoke delicious shivers. A firmer one, as with a well-focused massage, can catapult her into unusual reaches of ecstasy.
The buttocks, despite being mostly fat, are exquisitely sensitive. Delicate stroking of the globes, just with the fingertips, is seductive and arousing beyond words. Most men don't understand that a woman's ass isn't just a cushion for his thrusts. It's a pity.
One of the hidden prizes of the female body is the foot. A woman's feet are powerfully erogenous. ("Artemisia" taught me a great deal about this, one woman to another, when she visited a few months ago. It was a revelation to this former professional woman. I hadn't thought there was anything I didn't know about the body, especially my own. But then, I didn't appreciate high heels until Arta educated me, either.) A slow, delicate foot massage, or gently stroking the sole, or kissing and licking the toes, can turn a woman into a raging bundle of lust.
But it's the man's place to explore, for these things and others, and once he's found them, to express himself through them to his lover.
Nothing is as convincing a display of devotion as this: to dedicate oneself to the exploration of one's lover's body, without limit.
Gentlemen, if you do this, you will make her your thrall. No criticism of you will ever escape her lips...whether you're present or not. She will spend her every free moment dreaming about you, and about what she'll do to you when her next opportunity arrives.
Trust me on this. I know.
With love,
Fetiche
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