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Blog - BDSM Box

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Filtering by Tag: sex


Sasha Sobolevsky

I've been thinking a lot about squirting and it's misconceptions. Truth be told, I wasn't even that sure I understood it, and I've done it! So I obviously did a Google search for “squirting.”

The first hit was “How to Squirt During Sex,” a Cosmopolitan article from 2016. The first sentence of the article reads “Like coconut water, culottes, and CrossFit, squirting is having a moment.” Talking about female sexual phenomenon is having a “moment”?!?! And I know that Cosmo is not typically the hub of scientific (or even factual) sexual information, but did you just compare squirting to culottes???

Lower body of a person wearing denim culottes

Herein lies the general problem of sexual misconceptions: we are in such a race to come, that we ignore the process, the who what where when why how.

Moving right along, the next Google hit is also a Cosmo article, followed by Urban Dictionary’s definition of squirting. Not good, internet. In addition, Wikipedia (I know, super legit source), states that “To date, there have been no conclusive or major studies relating to female ejaculation.” My cursory study of the internet agrees with this statement. I don’t even see a basic level of agreement of what squirting, aka female ejaculation, is. And can we talk about the fact that it’s referred to as FEMALE ejaculation? Why we gotta specify the gender? Is it less legitimate than a regular, aka male, ejaculation?

Large social problems aside, in the scientific community it is still unknown whether ejaculate, as I will now refer to it, consists of urine, vaginal fluid, or something entirely different. There are thousands upon thousands of personal stories online about what ejaculate smells like, tastes like, feels like, when it happens, and how to make it happen.

My research leads me to conclude that there is no hard and fast rule about ejaculation. Some womxn experience it before orgasm, some during, some without orgasm at all. Most agree that it does not seem to be urine, at least in smell and consistency. Some have it through masturbation, some through sexual intercourse, some through both together. Some can only have it when alone, some only when with a partner, some not at all ever. Here’s the thing though: IT DOESN’T MATTER and it doesn’t make you any better or worse no matter which combination you are (or your partner is). Yep, I said it. You are whole, complete, and perfect either way. If your partner doesn’t believe / respect that, get rid of them!

To add my own personal story to the mix, I had my first ejaculation when I was 29 with a partner. He was fingering my g-spot very intensely, and it felt great! All of a sudden, some fluid came out onto the bed. But I hadn’t orgasmed. I freaked out because I thought I peed and I was so embarrassed. He calmed me down and explained that I squirted. And that he thought it was sexy. I still had to feel and smell it, and it really didn’t smell or feel like pee. I would say that quite a bit came out, which is why I thought I peed. Not like a geyser, but a lot. The second time I squirted I was fingering my own g-spot, without orgasm.

I hope that reading this, you feel normal. Because you are! I am too! So are people who make you feel bad for not being able to squirt, or orgasm, or etc., etc., etc. They are just jerks. If you want to try to squirt, DO IT! Alone, with a partner, with 4 partners, do you. As long as it is safe, sane, and consensual.

<3, Sasha

Ready to Play, Part II

Sasha Sobolevsky

BDSM kinky sexy fitting room

We're back with Part II of Ready to Play. If you missed Part I, make sure you read that first!


I see you stiffen then slump in a hunch. A hot, red flush creeps up the back of your neck. I want to press my lips there. Want to lick my tongue up that patch of skin and feel and taste the salty, nervous heat there.

But instead I wait while you think. This, more than anything else, is the best part of the game, giving you an impossible request, like showing me your unshowables while you sit on a busy, bustling street, and seeing what you’ll do. A man stands less than five feet away from you, smoking a cigarette. A group of three women are walking around the park, chatting. A teen with his dog is stopped by a tree. Right now, while you sit unobtrusively on the bench, you’re all but invisible, only of interest to me.

But, the second you start acting strangely, everyone will suddenly see. You know it. I know it. The question is, what are you going to do about it?

You bite your lip and grab your overnight bag next to you. Opening it, you riffle through it. You seem flustered as you push things around with both hands and make a big show of huffingly going through every inch of your bag.

I hear my phone’s notification chirp. I check our chat. While you’d been digging through your bag, you’d also shoved your shirt up and the waistband of your pants down, so you could take a picture of the thong’s tight, pink waistband against your pale skin like frilled frosting against rich pound cake. I want to chuckle at your cleverness, but am stunned by the sight of you.

The idea of you in my panties excites me every time. The idea that something that has touched me, cupped and held me, so intimately now touches you has always made you feel so close, no matter the distance between us. I lick my lips. Both at your stealthy ingenuity and the sight of you in the delicate cloth. I want to run my hands over that flesh, feeling the satiny pinch against the silk of your sleek skin. I want to lean in and smell you. I want to taste and love every inch of your body until no part of you hasn’t been touched and claimed by mine.

But first. “Cross the street. Walk three blocks west. Wait outside the dressing rooms on the third floor.”

Shouldering your bag, you follow my instructions.

I arrived in the city, halfway between your home and mine, two days ago, to scope it out. To learn my new playground. My new play grounds.

It’d taken me hours, that first day, to find a store that would work. A department store with no security cameras or guards. And who didn’t have workers who monitored the changing rooms or a ton of customer foot traffic.

I see you enter the discount department store and head for the men’s section. Wandering in outerwear, I hide behind coats and jackets, while you wait outside the changing rooms. I message you again. “Go into the third room.” You do, disappearing from my view. “When you get there, send me a picture of you in just your panties.”

The picture comes quicker this time, the notification itself sounding rushed, eager. I wait until a woman looking for an elevator passes, hugging my screen to my chest. Once alone, I look at my phone.

God, you’re sexy with your hard-on pressing against the pink satin, testing the limits of the fabric. You’re laid all but bare for me, covered only by those panties, and with your face cropped out of the photo.

I hate that you do that—I want to see nerves and excitement bright in your eyes, want to see embarrassed arousal flush your cheeks—but I understand why you do. Pictures are risky and, given that neither of us are out about this side of ourselves in our real lives, this is your limit. And your sense of safety and comfort is more important than my desire. If you weren’t into this, didn’t want this as much as I do, I wouldn’t—couldn’t—want it either.

But I know you do. You’ve told me so. Which is why I can’t wait for you to see the surprise I left you. “Lift the jeans in the corner.”

Another image—this time of soft, blue cotton in your hand, that I’d left in a plastic bag under the jeans earlier today—appears in our chat. Excitement grips me tighter, my breathing quickening. “Put them on.”

You send another photo. I stare at your image seeing the thin, sky-colored cloth barely covering you. I recall how comfortable those panties are, stretchy and form fitting. Seeing the outline of your erection clearly, I trace it with my finger. You look amazing, the blue beautiful on your body, even better than the pink.

Like it?” I’m marveled by how nervous two words from you can be.

Are you kidding? “You’re perfect.” I want to stare forever. I want to tear the fabric off your body with my teeth.

What would you do with me?” I can practically hear your excitement in the words. “Once you have me.”

I begin to type “Everything.” But I stop and delete. We’d promised each other, a long time ago, to never exaggerate or overstate our desires. We would be completely honest, so we could always trust what the other said. We never say everything or everywhere or all the time or never because, while those words often feel true, they rarely are. So I stop. And really think.

What would I do? “I would lay you over my lap and spank that bared ass. I’d feel your cock get hard against my thighs. Then I’d pull those pretty panties off you and fuck you.” I send it, feeling my pussy grow wet at the words, the image. “Would you like that?”


Feeling excited, I feel my heart race. “Then get dressed and head outside.” While you change, I hustle toward the hotel, making more plans on my phone. “Two blocks north there’s a liquor store. Pick up a bottle of wine.”

What kind?”

I grin. “Go up to a worker and ask them to recommend something for you.” I imagine you, with your new thong and a hard-on, talking awkwardly about wine with some unwitting, uncaring stranger trying to make a sale. “Then head two stores over and pick up the order of food I placed at the Chinese restaurant.” The idea of you juggling the food and drink, while you make your way to me thrills me. How many people along the way will notice your arousal? How embarrassed will you be? “There’s also a bakery next door. Get us two of your favorite treat.” Will the hot shame running through you fuel the fire of your desire?

With the thought of you struggling all over the city, I smile and head up to the hotel room to wait. With a secret grin, I send off a quick message before watching the elevator doors close. “Then head to the hotel two blocks west. Ask for my name at the counter; they’ll have a key for you.”

When you send me pictures of the wine and the food while I get things ready in the room, I giggle and send you back a picture of me licking my lips. I strip off all my clothes and slip into one of your work button-up office shirts that you sent to me a week ago with a request that I wear it today. I hold the sleeve to my face and inhale, smelling your faint scent still clinging to it.

Nervously, I pause in front of the hallway mirror, moving this way and that, wondering if you’ll think it makes me look shapeless and short, my waist and arms disappearing in the voluminous shirt. I frown and unbutton another button, hoping extra cleavage can make this look the way I want. It doesn’t.

But, before I can try something else, I hear you slide the keycard into the door. I take a panicked breath, smelling the takeout as you enter the room. Then I see you. And you see me.


I swallow and tug at the hem of my—your—shirt. “Hi.” I look at you. God, you look good, standing there with the bag of takeout in your teeth and the other bags and your luggage in your arms. You just stare at me, your eyes wide with heat. You look at me like you’ve never seen anything so beautiful. I don’t get why you like this look, why you asked for it. But I like that you do. I clear my throat. “I, uh, hope you’re hungry.”

You make a growling sound low in your throat, dumping the bags on the table. You walk up to me, your steps sweeping and swift, eating up the space between us. Grabbing me by the waist, you pull me close. My pulse races and my stomach flutters. When your lips touch mine, I sigh into the sensation, the scent and taste and touch of you. Finally.

For a moment, I just lose myself in our kiss. My mouth moves and presses against yours, my tongue, hungry and thorough, tasting yours. Needing to touch skin, my hands tug at your shirt until I can finally run my fingers over your back, your waist. My hands dip beneath the waistband of your pants and I feel that soft scrap of cotton over smooth skin.

With my hands on your shoulders, I push you onto the bed. Still standing a few feet away, I look down at you, now just an inch or two shorter than me, but it’s enough. Enough to feel right. I put my hands on my hips, feeling power surge through me. “Tell me what you want to do.”

You shake your head. Indecision flickers in your eyes. I know, you work best with options.

So I stalk closer to you, taking my time, letting you feel my every movement. “We could take it slow. I could let you touch me.” My hands unbutton the shirt. “My breasts, my shoulders, my waist, my hips, my ass, my thighs, my pussy.” I touch myself, watching you watch me. Stepping between your spread legs, I trail my finger along your jaw. “Then I’ll touch you.”

I wrap my hand around your throat gently but possessively as you swallow, feeling your Adam’s apple bob against my palm. “Or we could take this fast. I could turn you over on this bed, pull your pants down, and spank that bared ass. I could watch those pretty cheeks blush red for me before I pull those pretty panties off you and fuck you. Hard.”

I see you lean into me, your skin already flushing with desire. I lean in too. But stop just shy of kissing you again. I step back. “Or we could eat dinner and watch some TV. I brought the movie I was telling you about.” I hold out my hands. “Your choice. Whatever you want.”

You look at me, biting your lip and thinking. I love watching you think.

Then, decided, you stand up and come closer, making nerves flutter inside me. “All of the above.” You stop right in front of me and bow your head, looking into my eyes. “Please.”

Good answer. I grin. We could do that. We do have all weekend.

I reach up and tangle my fingers in your hair, pulling you down for my kiss. You feast on my mouth, eager and hungry. Groaning into your mouth, I swallow your echoing sound. Then, fisting my hand in your hair, I pull you back to the bed. I lead you to lay over my lap, your ass in the air. Not letting go of your twisted strands, I tell you, “Take off your pants.”

Without moving beyond a wiggle of hips, you struggle to undo your belt and slide your pants down to your knees. I see that pretty ass, so round and sweet I have to stroke it. I trail my fingers over the elastic band hugging you and down the thin line of cotton disappearing between your cheeks. Touching the curves of your ass, I feel my palm itch. I need to feel your heat against my hand.

So I pull my arm back and smack your ass, loving how your flesh bounces at the contact. Letting out a sharp hiss, you arch your back and tense your thighs. I strike again, on the other cheek, then back again. I keep spanking you until I hear you moan, the sound muffled by the bedding. Your cock is hard against my thighs, the wet slide of your pre-come slick on my own legs.

You wriggle, rubbing yourself against me in a wordless plea. “You want more?”

You nod, needy sounds escaping your throat.

“What do you want?” I stroke your ass, feeling the hot rush of blood beneath your skin.

“To make love to you.”

Warmth rushes me, making my pussy clench in want. “Then get on your knees.”

You do in a rushed tangle of limbs. I spread my legs, making room for you between them. Looking at you gazing up at me from the floor makes my desire swell. I lick my lips and lean back, giving you full access to my sex.

Leaning in, you inhale, savoring the heady scent of my arousal. I can smell it too, thick and hot in the air. Your tongue dips between my lips, teasing the soft flesh. Learning the terrain, you lick and nibble at my labia.

I look down at you. You’re so sexy, your eyes closed in concentration and your face set in determined lines. I reach down to stroke your hair, encouraging you while you explore my wet sex.

I bite back a satisfied sound when your tongue touches my clit. Seeking a better angle, I hitch my hips and pleasure runs through me like an electric current while you lick my swollen flesh.

Needing more, I pull you up off the ground and over me. I take your hand and guide it to my waiting sex, urging you to touch me. You play with my clit, the sensation like flickers of fire at every touch. I lean back and reach between us, cupping your hard cock in my hand through the strained cotton panties.

You groan. Throwing your head back, you bite your lip. Your touch grows more insistent, more desperate, while I stroke your length. Our hips thrust together in time, our bodies entwined.

I feel your hand slip lower to slide two fingers inside me, the feeling full and exciting. Your movements are small and shallow—hampered by our position—but, when the heel of your hand grinds against my clit, I writhe with desire.

My climax builds, making my grip on you tighten. You’re so hard and hot in my hand; I imagine I’m soft and slick in yours. The idea of us touching each other like this, feeling and fueling each other’s pleasure, pushes me over the edge.

Coming on a cry, my body arches against your hand before feeling you thrust harder into my palm. You pant heavily above me while your whole body tenses. You lose your breath, your own orgasm heaving out of you in a heavy huff.

My hand squeezes as your come, wet and sticky, against the crotch of the panties, seeps out the sides of the thong. I smile and cup you, feeling your length soften as you shudder over me.

Finally, your body gives way and I welcome your weight, hugging you close to me and stroking your back, my hand wet with your seed.

As we lie there, I think about all my friends and family back home. My coworkers who thought I was crazy to fly to some strange city to meet some stranger I met online for a date. My friends who thought this whole thing was a lot of work to get laid. My sister who was sure this was all some scam or sinister plot.

They don’t understand.

But I do.

I’d looked all around me and couldn’t find love. Not the kind I longed for and dreamed of. I’d looked all over the country—all over the world, or at least the web—to find you. If the fact that I’m here—that you’re here—that we’re here together—isn’t proof that what we found is worth it, I don’t know what is. I hug you closer to me, still a little amazed that you’re finally here in my arms.

You sigh into my neck, sounding satisfied but sad. “I didn’t get to do half the things I wanted to do.”

I chuckle. Me too. “Well,” I say as I smack your ass, “we have all weekend.” And, after all this time, I cannot wait.

Ready to Play, Part I

Sasha Sobolevsky

We have a special guest post for you today. Sonni de Soto wrote this story especially for you. Hope you enjoy!

Kinky BDSM box fetish legs sexy

I see you sitting on the park bench, exactly as I’d told you.

Good boy.

You look good, all buttoned-down with a nice tie and shined shoes. But I know what you hide. I know what’s inside.

I smile. Let’s get started.

My friends all think it’s odd that we met on a dating site. That I would go through the hassle of long-distance dating instead of finding someone closer to my small hometown.

They don’t get it.

I remember messaging you. You’d been surprised. Even on a kinky dating site, even with Dommes, women rarely message men first. But I did. After one look at your photo, your profile, I knew you had to be mine.

For the first few exchanges, I’d kept things casual. Flirty. Asking about your job. Your family. Your interests. I’d memorized every office anecdote, every family memory, every trivia about your every passion, storing it away in my head like treasure.

Like when, after months of messages complaining about your boss and your scheming coworker, I’d had you conduct a meeting in front of them while wearing one of my thongs. You couldn’t believe that the ego-shattering humiliation of wearing my used panties somehow gave you the confidence to look your boss in the eye and tell him your ideas. As if knowing you could survive doing one proved you could do the other. The pinch of elastic and slide of pink satin providing you proof of your own capability and boosting your confidence.

I’d been so proud of you.

But not nearly as proud as when you’d gone camping instead of visiting your family last Christmas, choosing to send me pictures of you standing naked at the top of a cliff instead of having a strained dinner with people who willfully will never understand you. It was as if me making you do whatever I want gave you permission to do what you actually want. As if, through service kink, you discovered self-care.

After sharing messages and phone calls and pictures and videos for nearly a year now, despite living halfway across the country, I’ve never felt closer to anyone, more intimate with someone. I know you better than anyone else in this world and you me, but I’ve never even looked into your eyes, never touched your skin, never tasted your kiss.

And, as I stand in the shadows and watch you sit on that bench, I wonder if the distance made the difference. Nervous about what will happen to our dynamic outside the digital realm, I pick up my phone and log into the dating site’s app.

We could have switched to any other social media messaging system. We could have emailed or texted. And we did, from time to time, when it was more convenient. But we met on this app, got to know and fell for each other on it. It’s as much a part of our relationship as we are.

I click on our chat logs and type.

You look good.”

I see you jump at your phone’s notification sound. You fumble with your mobile device, read, then look around before responding.

Thank you. Where are you?”

I smile. “Around.”

There’s a pause. “I thought we were going to meet face-to-face.” That’s the whole point of this trip.

I know. “We will.” But first. “Tell me what you want to do.”


I want to cackle, feeling the game begin. “When we finally meet, what would you like to do?”

There’s a longer lull. I can practically see the endless possibilities race through your head, overwhelming you.

I take pity on you, knowing you work better with options. “Well, I hear there’s a great museum in town. Or we could see a movie. Or grab dinner.” I swallow and send one more option. “Or head to the hotel room.”


Your response is so short, quick, I want to laugh.

I couldn’t agree more. “What will we do once there?”

I watch you type. Then delete. Then type. You stare for an indecisive moment, before sending. “I want to touch you.”


“Your breasts, your shoulders, your waist, your hips, your ass, your thighs, your pussy.”

Good answer. “Would I touch you?”


My hand instinctively fingers the hotel keycard in my pocket. Soon. “Show me your panties.”

You squirm, while you read that. You begin to move.

Where are you going?”

You freeze. “To find a restroom, so I can show you?”

You write it as a question. As if you’re asking for clarification. Or permission. That shouldn’t make me happy, but it does. So much so that I almost give it to you.

But we both know it’s better if I don’t. So. “Nope. Do it. Right here.”


EDIT: Part II of Ready to Play is now up!