Be the boss in bed with these empowering moves. We're all about clearing up sex-related misconceptions, and here's an important one to dismantle: that the person doing the penetrating runs the show in the bedroom. Not so. In fact, there's a whole host of female-dominant sex positions that put you in the driver's seat, giving you control over the mood, pacing, and most importantly, the orgasmic pleasure you feel. Being in charge means you take the initiative, which is empowering.
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Annie Sprinkle, a noted sexologist and the first porn star to earn a Ph. in human sexuality, she explained that, while most people have several mild fetishes, Greg seems to have an extreme one, which she added is more common in men than women. I prefer to label everyone else as vanilla and too afraid to explore what they really want to do.
After college, when Greg moved to Manhattan, he began frequenting strip clubs and rediscovering his urges. He would buy lap dances and use the time to give the dancers foot massages. Slowly, he began to incorporate pain and trampling into his fetish.
He started tipping her extra to spit in his drinks and asked if she had heard about him from the dancers. She had and was completely unfazed.
He took out my dirty thong and began cutting it up, sprinkling the pieces onto his tuna tartare. Grinning like the Cheshire Cat, Greg took a bite of his appetizer and then began to tell me about the next important woman on his fetish timeline: Melissa. In fact, she created the protocol that has become his standard: Never go for the new girl; find the one who has been there long enough to start hating it-the jaded, angry one, someone who will delight in dumping a tray of drinks on him and making him lick her boots.
With Melissa as his partner in crime, there was a safety net. They could go anywhere, and it all went on under the noses of the mostly male management.
What would you do for a pair of Christian Louboutin shoes? I was the only guy there and was told to drink only their pee all night rather than alcohol.
Before breakfast, there was a threesome with a prostitute and a "real estate guy" at the St. Regis Hotel. She later met up with a friend - with benefits - for an afternoon snos-domov.infoted Reading Time: 7 mins Testicles are a major male erogenous zone. Find out the best sex positions that make it easy to touch, caress, and play with his balls, so he feels more pleasure In , "dancing boy" Ahmad, then 17, revealed: "I love my lord. I love to dance and act like a woman and play with my owner." "Once I grow up, I will be an owner and I will have my own
Melissa picked him up and brought him home. I suddenly sensed that he gets way more tail than I ever imagined. I feel more normal and true to myself than anyone else. We exited the restaurant together, ready to go our separate ways.
Teacher strips in front of students, photos go viral. AMSTERDAM, Netherlands - A teacher at a Dutch school stood up on her desk in front of all of her students and began taking off 1. "The feeling itself is whatever, but what turns me on is my boyfriend losing his mind over my ass." [via] 2. "Amazing! It's not as mind blowing as vaginal oral, but it's a completely different Estimated Reading Time: 6 mins At 8 Years Old, My Mother's Boyfriend Made Me His Sex Slave Nearly every day at 4 p.m., for years, he would summon me to bed. His acts were unthinkable, but now I'm ready to talk
As I got into a cab on Lafayette Street, I watched Greg heading home, where I knew he would sleep soundly with his face in a pair of Jimmy Choo shoes. Stay Informed Get the latest in Arts, Entertainment and Innovation delivered to your inbox daily. We get it: you like to have control of your own internet experience. But advertising revenue helps support our journalism. To read our full stories, please turn off your ad blocker.
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The author, pictured above, relaxing with her dog. Filed Under: EntertainmentSexrestaurantChristian LouboutinbarFoot fetishbondsthumiliation.
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Man Gets His Face on her Ass ??????
Now, with the flick of a pen, I was Mooch a nickname Lundquist, daughter of Gary, new student at his out-of-state school. In no one seemed to question any of this.
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No one seemed to care that my school records displayed a different name or that Gary was not my legal guardian. We weren't even related. He was just my mother's boyfriend. But social norms dictate that we do not insert ourselves into other people's personal lives.
Being polite means keeping one's mouth shut.
And so I, the newly minted Mooch Lundquist, became a third grader at Delaware Township School. My classroom was on the first floor of the elementary building - just a staircase away from Gary.
Every day at 3 p. Inevitably, a few of his favored year-old students would still be hanging around - joking with him or sitting on his lap.
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Some days Gary would oversee an after-school activity. The gifted and talented club was invitation only - Gary's invitation, that is. Trouble was: Gary had no real training or authority to be administering IQ tests.
Instead, he gave kids a short multiple-choice test, the Mickey Mouse kind sold in bookstores. Then, based on his findings, he labeled certain kids - the kids he liked and wanted to spend more time with - as "gifted.
I was gifted, according to Gary. This was a real convenience, as he demanded I join his, and only his, after-school clubs. He signed me up for his drama club too and encouraged me to sing in the school talent contest. On the night of the show, various kids performed their acts, and the winner was chosen based on audience response. Gary was among the judges who awarded me first prize. After that, I was given the lead in all the school plays that he directed. To the other parents, I suppose it seemed that Gary was harmlessly lauding his new daughter.
In a certain way, he was. Not because he actually thought I was gifted or talented.
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Gary was a narcissist, and narcissists view their families as extensions of themselves, as trophies. Gary believed he was superior, so it was imperative that the world see his daughter as superior too. Behind closed doors it was a different story. Gary treated me with a dizzying blend of over-involvement, neglect, overindulgence and cruelty. With Svengali-like skill, he quickly took over every ct of my life, dictating what I wore, to whom I talked, even what toys I used.
Gary dictated what I wore, to whom I talked, even what toys I used. He also strove to monopolize my time - an easy accomplishment since my mother left for work before I awoke and didn't return until evening. During the school year, this meant Gary had me all to himself for an hour each morning and at least three hours every afternoon.
Once summer came, he had me all day, every day, all to himself. This meant being subjected to daily "training sessions" - intense periods when I was explicitly instructed on how to behave and think like a slave. Much like a dog must be trained to sit, to stay, to heel, practitioners of sadomasochism believe a sex slave must be trained in how to speak, sit, serve.
In short, like a dog, she must be taught total obedience. Gary's dungeon was in the basement. Instead, he left a series of nails and hooks attached to the ceiling beams, which could quickly and easily hold a harness, a rope or some other type of bondage device.
While much of Gary's paraphernalia had to be kept hidden, I could tell he also had some fun in displaying a few tools of his trade. The dog cage, for instance, was left in plain sight - folded up in a cluttered corner where it appeared to be waiting for the next garage sale.
He also kept a wooden paddle hanging on the wall of his home office, which he jokingly told guests was for "errant children. Nor did most people realize that he kept a set of metal handcuffs in his desk drawer, right next to a stun gun and his handgun. I can't remember being threatened with the gun - although it may have happened.
Due to amnesia, as well as the normal forgetfulness of memory, there are many details about my abuse I can't recall. I know this because, over the years, eyewitnesses have told stories about my abuse that I cannot personally remember. I do, however, remember Gary threatening me with the stun gun repeatedly.
And while he may be feared as a hard-ass despot at work, where he's the boss, I have him saved in my phone as Sissyboy Slave. The nickname is well-deserved Holding the headboard or placing your palms against the wall behind it for leverage, drape your body over your partner. Then grind, gyrate, and rock your way to The Houseboy first messaged me six months ago on the online dating site OKCupid. "Hi," his message said. "I am a houseboy. I will clean your house, or anything else you want me to do
He even used it on me once. Once was all it took. For after experiencing the excruciating, utterly indescribable pain it inflicted, I never, ever wanted to experience it again.
When he wasn't hurting me, he lavished me with parental attention. On the long drives to and from school, he would initiate conversations about history, politics and art.
We ate nearly every meal together while he instructed me on things like table manners and ethnic cuisine. He gave me my first typewriter and influenced my decisions to become both a writer and psychologist.
He took the time to open up the world for me. He was my first and most significant mentor. Under my mother's care, I'd been neglected and deprived. She was constantly at work, leaving me alone and lonely.
Gary preyed on that loneliness. Like any skilled pedophile, he identified what I needed, and he gave it to me. He made me feel special, talented, smart. Even sexually, staying on Gary's good side had its advantages. For once he felt I had become sufficiently trained and submissive, most of the torture tapered off.
Afternoons in the basement were replaced by the bedroom.
And his fervor to cause me pain was replaced with a passion to bring me pleasure. I suspect it made him feel powerful - like more of a man. Nearly every day at 4 p. The weird part, of course, was that his "lover" was just under four feet tall and weighed less than 60 pounds. There was also the inconvenient fact that his official lover, my mother, refused to vanish. Unable to ditch her physically, he did it emotionally instead.
Every evening, he locked himself in his home office. Every weekend, he went to his store. As I was expected to work for him, I followed wherever he went.
Very early on, my mother began to notice this pattern, and she didn't like it.
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Not one bit. Being immature, she didn't handle the situation with grace. She felt excluded, which she was.
This Post Has 3 Comments
Kar 2 Oct 2012 Reply
Attempt not torture.
Dousar 2 Oct 2012 Reply
Till what time?
Kajinris 2 Oct 2012 Reply
Your inquiry I answer - not a problem.