Clit-Orations

From the November 1995 issue of The New Yorker. Photographer, Richard Avedon; model, Nadja Auermann. Via MaliciousGlamour.

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So call, try to look up my skirt, or stay hidden in the bushes and peep at me wearing my animal print dress — I know you’re there, so I’ll slowly strip and tease the shit out of you, loser.

Get your kicks in quick, because I’ll be gone for the holiday weekend. And you’ll miss me.

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Piggies tend to wander off a lot, it’s true; but occasionally you find a few worthy of making into pets. Sissies, on the other hand, tend to travel around much more. I think it’s because they are always in search of a new make-over, because they are always looking for a new party to be the queen at (they are always second place at my parties, of course), and because they are often let go by Mistresses who can no longer put up with their ineptitude.

With a constant stream of sissies, I do give a lot of make-overs. Whether they want them or not — you wouldn’t believe how badly some of them dress & poorly they groom themselves. Some of them, even with coaching & training, must be let go; they remain too sloppy, in look or behavior, to be around me. But that’s OK, another one will show up in a few minutes. There is no sissy shortage.

Unless you count their genitals.

Thankfully, I do enjoy dressing & styling new sissies.

Recently, while dressing a new sissy maid (Marie), I found her a cute pink wig & pretty flirty skirt (which I always modify so that the back is shorter, the ruffles higher, for greater access and vulnerability).

Usually such small sizing isn’t an issue; many sissies are slim (some could even wear my pants — even though they’ll never “get into them”!). But sometimes, a sissy can’t buy “just anywhere” or might even struggle to find properly fitting attire. (And I am very picky.)

Marie was one of these sissies. She isn’t a big-boned-girl or anything, but the ‘one size fits most’ skirts are not going to work. Then, it’s off to eBay where one can usually find a discreet seller who either has a larger selection, including sizing, or who does custom work (totally worth the price when you are dealing with someone as particular as I am).

However, this can pose problems for sissies. Since many sissies have short attention spans &/or impulse issues, and cannot stand waiting while searching for the perfect skirt, the correct shade of lippie, etc. This is largely how they end up looking so horrid.

Fortunately for them, my sissies have me.

I distract them with other sparkling items while they wait, punish them when they are too impulsive, or otherwise occupy their time (maybe an orifice or two too).

And if they don’t like it, they can move along now… Another sissy will be by in 15 minutes or so.

And I’ll get to name her, and dress her, bend her in strange positions, and loan her out to my brothers — just like I did with Barbie.

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Talk To The Legs, art photo found via Pinkie’s BDSM blog.

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In response to a piggy who wonders why he oinks upon my command (and to those who find themselves oinking at the thought of me)…

Little piggy balls are like my very own — miniature — crystal balls; I see everything I need to in them to control you.

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His name is Stuart, but he’s a submissive piggy boy, so I get to call him what I wish.

Me: I will now call you stew-y d. moore — that’s how you’ll sign all your messages to me, from now on.

stew-y d. moore: Yes, Mistress.

Me: And don’t call me “Mistress” — I am now The Celebutaunt. One part “celebutant“, one part “taunt.”

stew-y d. moore: Yes, Celebutaunt. May i ask you a question?

Me: you may ask; I’m not certain about the answer…

stew-y moore: Why did You name me stew-y d. moore?

Me: Are you questioning The Celebutaunt?

stew-y: No, Celebutaunt. Just wondering.

Me: you are stew-y d. moore because you have a little bit of meat, just like stew, but it’s so small that it must be “dinky,” not Dinty. And no matter what it’s called, I’m not going to eat it.

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I like summer; most people do. But summer’s where the money is for a trailer trash girl.

In winter there is the occasional, by comparison, crunch of tires on icy gravel, announcing the arrival of little piggies who come to view yours truly. But they stay in the car, with the engine off so as not to arouse suspicions while they arouse (and hope to relieve themselves of their arousal). But if breath-frosted car windows don’t block the view, my curtains drawn to keep heat in my trailer do; and then, of course, there is the matter of mittened-hands working zippers and what is inside them.

But in summer, piggies park elsewhere and sneakily creep (or so they think) into the bushes where they can (& quite often do) spy upon me. Exposing themselves to the summer environment is more comfortable, and it sure must be OK with them for they are rarely alone… It seems to me there are far more piggies in my bushes than the proverbial birds.

And the birds would have much better luck being in my hand.

From the bushes they peep, looking for signs of me. More than my comings and goings they see me in the windows — and at my favorite place, the screen door.

It’s one of those “half & half” doors; the top is screen and the bottom is that tin sort of metal. I use it to my advantage, standing before it, removing my panties and holding them up for the bush-pigs to see. They wank on their wee willies and dream.

They cannot see me, which only makes them pine more. And sometimes, when the mood strikes, I’ll toss my panties out the door onto the dirt before the steps to see what happens. I can hear the absence of the piggy pants — they freeze, including holding their breath. Will one of them run out to claim them? Will they fight for my panties?

Well, not yet. At least not that I’ve ever seen.

I sometimes call, “Sue-y!” to alert them. But they don’t need alerting; they know my worn panties are there. What they need are the balls to come forward. But balls they don’t have. Wee willies to wank, yes; balls no.

So I’ll retreat to the shadows of the trailer, where they cannot see me through the screen, and I wait. Eventually, if I do not get too bored, one of them will endeavor to come and get them. He will try to act nonchalant, strolling by, trying to act as if on a walk — and wait a minute… what’s that spot of red (or yellow, or white…) on the ground there? They squint and make like they will casually investigate; but they always chicken out.

My calls of, “Here piggy piggy piggy,” taunt them as they nearly run back into the bushes or down the drive which likely leads, somewhichway, to their car – and escape.

Other times I get bored waiting. When I remember to look for my panties I sometimes find them still there; other times I do not. I have found them behind the bushes, or on the steps to my trailer — and once, on the seat of my car — freshly laundered and delicately, reverently placed, like a rare offering. Other times, they hang soiled and used in the bushes, or, like the gift of a cat, dirty and abused, outside my door. But if the panties have been taken, returned or not, there is always a gifty for me.

Sometimes it is jewelry, or a gift card for clothes or DVDs, maybe cash, or a bottle of amaretto (my favorite, especially on ice on a summer night), perhaps, rarely, a card or note (most piggies are too timid to leave their names, especially with a pair of panties); but it’s always some little gift.

I do love summer.

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Don’t get too excited, grunt. It’s Nikki Nines here, moving over older posts from the old blog. I’ve put it off long enough; Blogger’s forcing the issue by discontinuing their FTP option.

Anyway, here’s some “classic” Nikki Nines:

Gracie of Sex-Kitten interviewed me; and that’s likely as much as you will ever know about Nikki Nines.

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Ouija
Originally uploaded by Bohemiart

I’ll admit a certain kinship with ghosts and legendary creatures — as well as those who hunt them. I have a fascination with the thin walls of this world — or more accurately, their parting. I enjoy watching where they rip, and peering past such improbable, flimsy, restraints into what lies beyond.

I love where science meets faith and they challenge one another, head on; but unlike like rams at rut, the challenge is more probing and filled with awe. It’s like sex. Like good sex.

I like questioning what’s here as well as what is, if anything, beyond; and I aspire to create or recreate such possibilities for myself.

But I am no latitudinarian when it comes to the current use of the word “Gothic” and have even less use for those who call themselves “Goth”; for the most part they’ve taken all the quest, questioning, and longing out of it.

Gothic isn’t all dark pessimism; like the architecture, the true philosophy of “Gothic” reaches for the heavens.

More than a stone skeleton of columns and flying buttresses, the arches and spires orchestrate and conspire exploration of limits, suggesting a soul, if not flesh.

Ogive arches simultaneously point to heaven yet acquiesce to the burden, directing the force & weight of the burdens of such an improbable reach. They are designed to both create the light & provide the structure. Thus the imposing structures are as uplifting as they are intimidating.

Spires, like the obelisks before them, were as much spears as prayers. Each spire a show of strength, a demand, an impotent quest… A phallus thrusting for admission, the aching alms of humanity constructed in entreaty and defiance. And wonder.

Lacking in spires leaves one emotionally, and literally, without aspirations. This is why, even when spires were lost quickly — within just a few short years crumbling & falling from their heights — they are etched in our minds. Their visual ambitions are recalled; remembered not for failure, but honored for the balls & glory to try.

When those self-described Gothic persons only see or believe in “darkness” and “gloom” without reaching, without romance, they’ve made it as base as fucking.

It is true that you must omit light to have utter darkness; but to believe it is simple to do, to ignore the battle & dismiss the conquest is folly. Where light probes dark, where dark resists & envelopes light, where one forces the other to give way and submit, this is where the beauty of possibility lies.

Simply starting from, or existing only in, darkness is to miss the the contrast, the interplay.

slivers of light, shivers of delight
despair in the dark, declare in the dark

When people forget to reach for (let alone acknowledge) the light, they miss the beauty. But I thrill at such purpose of discovery.

I find it stimulating how the unknown curls into a ball to protect itself from the parry and thrust of intellect, how beauty cannot be dissected & replicated as the sum of its parts, how seeking is as much about the love & adoration as it is the desire to know — it must be, for we know we are doomed from the start. We are either doomed to remain ignorant, doomed to our discoveries and have the magic removed, or doomed to only have more questions. We know this, and yet we continue anyway.

I arouse at the intercourse of light and dark, finger tips of one penetrating the other, in the push-comes-to-shove exploration of faith and science in the pursuit of truth… Where force may oft be best plied as a reverent whisper, and the brute force of denial may result in our own scream of anguish. And either may be the surprising key to open the door.

This is why I like power play, power exchange, BDSM, whatever you call it. It’s probing, challenging, illumination, squelching… The twisting turns of our bodies and souls. The awe.

It’s where the spill of release may be as readily achieved by a soft moan in the ear as it is by a cruel word spate in harsh tones… a feathery touch on a tender place, followed by the hard crack of leather.

Tell me you “can’t come that way” and I’ll apply my knowledge of you, leveraging your grey matter as well as your physical parts at precise points, until I have you drooling like Pavlov’s dog from your genitals — the orgasm at the end of the world, rending the fabric of your reality.

For you, the sub, it is in the darkness of subspace that you find illumination, salvation, and the desire for more; the soft grey veils part, exposing glimpses of additional mystery. For me, the Domme, a chance to regain, however slight, access to the very same. Even if only in my subs eyes and sighs…

Oh, heavens — this devious angel has long missed you.

I continue to reach.

Gothic BDSM images by Vlad Gansovsky.

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