Thursday, 17 May 2018

Dylan's Fete

They meet again: breast love, and more.

For their first encounter, see here 


Dylan dropped off his aunt at the village fête, this time held at a field belonging to a wealthy newcomer who obviously wanted to get into the locals' good book. After a quick look at the countrified pursuits being practised in a slightly muddy field  gently sloping towards the lake, he was about to go back to his car having decided it wasn't - quite - his scene.

Then he saw her, at the bottle stall, just as he was stepping out of the main fête area. She wore sunglasses and was dressed differently, but there was no mistaking the straight, silky hair; the wide grin of her very red lips and - of course - the heavy, large breasts completely filling the top section of her dress. The dress was low cut and sleeveless and in all honesty not the most flattering of garments, but what it really did was to show off the boobs which figured proudly in their magnificent bulk, with acres of smooth, golden skin exposed in the cleavage and with the outline of the nipples just about, barely but quite-actually-there visible.

Dylan remembered them very well - he couldn't have possibly not remembered, he wanked daily recalling their earlier encounter - but seeing them in real life again had a powerful effect and gave him a semi-hard-on instantaneously.

He stopped in his tracks and walked towards the bottle stall. She must have recognised him too because her smile turned into a wide grin and she licked her lips, quickly but unmistakeably. Dylan's semi was rapidly turning into a full-on boner and only a protection of his jacket, tied round his waist, which he surreptitiously turned to conceal his groin, prevented him from publicly disgracing himself.

“Hi,” he mumbled on approaching the bottle stall. She smiled even wider.

“Do you see something that takes your fancy? It's a pound per ticket or
seven for a fiver. Every number ending in five or zero wins.”

Dylan felt his throat getting dry and his cock getting harder, painfully straining in his jeans. He was sure she knew what was happening to him but he could not do anything in such a public place.

“I'll have seven then. Nice to see you again, do you live locally?” he asked, his voice slightly shaking. She handed him the basket with tickets. As she did that, she leaned down from the stall and he could see even further down her cleavage. There were tiny droplets of sweat between her breasts and her nipples were now much more noticeable.

As she leaned over he Dylan could see not just their outline, but a glimpse of the dark areaolas and a side view of the fat, round nipples themselves. His hands were shaking as he picked out the tickets and he stifled a groan. She smiled and adjusted her dress, and as she did it he was absolutely sure she brushed her right breast and nipple with the palm of her hand.

“I live here,” She pointed to the house beyond the field. As she moved her arm, her tits moved in an undulating motion, raising higher in her dress. Dylan longed to cup them in his hands, squeeze and tweak the nipples, suck and lick and cum on them. His cock was throbbing and he felt he needed a wank soon or he would cream his pants then and there.

And yet, he stayed there, his hands shaking and his mouth dry, unable to tear himself away from this woman who could have been his mother but whose incredible tits he'd covered in his copious spunk as she arched in orgasm that didn't even need him touching her pussy.

Dylan opened his tickets. Two of them were winning ones and he appeared to be now a proud owner of a bottle of cream sherry and a - slightly more appealing - a set of miniature single malts. “Let me put them in the bag for you,” she said and efficiently bagged the bottles. “It's time for my break now, I can see Fiona is coming over so I might go and cool myself down by the lake. I have some of the waterside too, there is even a boathouse by the jetty,” she pointed again to a building that was beyond the area of the fête.

Dylan felt there was some point to all this, and when she passed him the bag, he was sure that her hand touched his for longer that it was strictly necessary. “You better put these in the car first,” she said, and now he knew that he didn't imagine an undercurrent to their small talk.

“Can't wait,” he said and she looked at him quickly above her sunglasses.

“Neither can I,” she laughed, a low, raspy sound that made him stifle an involuntary moan.

Dylan walked to his car, parked quite a distance from the entrance to the fête. His cock was still partially engorged, in memory of his previous astonishing encounter with this woman whose name he didn't know but whose breasts he had explored thoroughly, and now also in anticipation.

He put the bag in the car, adjusted his trousers and gave his dick a sneaky squeeze and slowly walked back, avoiding the main fête area and aiming for the boathouse. There was no people here, and the door was ajar. He entered the shady semi-darkness of the shed and stood on the threshold for a while to let his eyes adjust.

“Bolt the door, please,” he heard her speak and after doing as asked, he saw her, leaning against the wall to the back of the room. The straps of her dress were pulled down, the whole top of it rolled around her waist and her magnificent tits were there, in a there-quarter cup sheer bra that made it easy not just to see the shape of the breast but also all details of the nipples.

Dylan groaned as he felt his cock get immediately harder again. Her tits were at least and E, possibly F cup, and considering that she wasn't a skinny chit, and E/F was something to behold. Not only were they large, soft and smooth, but she also had amazing nipples which, when aroused, not only got darker and longer, but also thickened massively, to become akin to oversized raspberries, begging to be sucked, licked and bitten.

In an instant, he was by her side, stroking those huge globes, breathing rapidly into the crook of her neck, licking her earlobes and rubbing his engorged cock against her leg. His hands were on her tits, squeezing and kneading, stroking the nipples, tweaking them, pushing up with the palm of his hand against the hardening nubs. His balls felt high and tight, his cock as hard as he ever remembered, and he was aware of nothing but the smell of her skin, the soft moans of her arousal, the taste and texture of her skin.

“Easy, easy, slow down, baby,” she laughed, but didn't push him away and instead directed his mouth directly to her breasts. He sucked a nipple through the lace, biting it very gently and she groaned as it engorged even more, now a grape-sized and hot. Soon they were both liberated, hanging out of the bra in their full glory, and Dylan was drunk with desire. He leaned forward, and started to lick her nipples, alternating between the left and the right one, his hand working the other breast, tweaking, pulling the nipple, squeezing, and rubbing.

He licked upwards, with the flat of his tongue, so her thick, long nipple was making a soft groove in his tongue and his saliva was covering her breast. Then he licked round her nipples, in soft, wide circles, little flicks of the stiff tongue darting to the buds, but concentrating on the teasing around the fat berries of her erect nipples. Then he took her nipple into his mouth, between his lips, softly and wetly at first, not quite sucking yet, to then close the lips firmer and start sucking while at the same time stimulating the nipple with his tongue. Her areolas were raised and puffed up and she was panting, stroking his head, her fingers clenching on his hair as louder and louder moans escaped from her mouth.

She slid down to her knees and pulled Dylan's trousers down. His cock was rock hard, bouncing against his belly, leaking copious amounts of pre-cum and throbbing. He could easily cum now, but he wanted to prolong the deliciousness of the scene. She cupped her tits in her hands and pulled him down, to rub the head of his cock on her breasts.

As the swollen, purple hood stimulated her nipples, now raw with arousal, she let out an animal-like groan. Dylan was  panting now, his whole energy concentrating on slowing the rising tide of spunk in his balls. She wanked him with her nipples and soft flesh of the huge tits, while every so often giving the head of his cock a lick with her trembling tongue. He couldn't contain himself anymore, moaning loudly. The stream of spunk was unstoppable now, boiling up in his balls and making his cock even harder and hotter. She must have felt it when licking him, as she pushed his cock hard against her nipples and groaned.

“Ooooh, fuck, oooooh, cum on my tits, noooow, oooh, now now now....”, she moaned and Dylan let go, glorious streams of hot, thick semen splattering on her erect nipples, engorged areolas, the whole swollen up, incredible tits. The pleasure was so intense that he cried out, and it seemed to take ages, a shot after a shot from a throbbing, fat cock that appeared to lose only some of its firmness as he climaxed.

She pushed his head down onto her breasts and in a delirious instant he was licking of his own salty cum of her skin, sucking her nipples clean as she panted and writhed under his mouth and hands. He was dimly aware of his leg being between her tights, her hot pussy rubbing herself on him, copious amount of cunt juices making his skin slippery.

His cock was getting hard again, amazingly quickly, it never happened so fast even though as a 24 year old he recovered fast, but now he was in a fully erect state minutes after an intense orgasm, on some wave of desire that just carried both of them over a crest, down and back up another even higher point of arousal.

She pushed him onto the ground, pulling his jeans and pants off completely, his cock hard and again so hot he felt he had to rub it to relieve some of the need. Her tits, sticky with his cum and saliva, raw-red from his hands and mouth, were hanging above his mouth and he licked them frantically before she moved lower, tit-fucking him for a short while before pulling her dress off and mounting him quickly and smoothly. His cock glided into her cunt.

She was incredibly wet and hot, and yet also very tight, tighter than many women his age or younger he fucked before. He felt her cunt muscles working, tightening and relaxing, pumping his turgid cock, her hips rocking back and fro, up and down, in little circles and then bigger circles. She was riding him mercilessly, passionately, furiously, with a complete abandon. He saw her huge melon-shaped breasts above him, magnificent, glorious, the most beautiful and the most sexually satisfying pair he ever had a privilege to worship. He kneaded them and rubbed the nipples as she fucked him, and as he did that, she rocked faster, moaning and panting.

Dylan could feel his cock and balls filling with hot spunk again, and she must have felt this too, and responded to the thickening of his prick, the increase in his size filling her up as she threw her head back and screamed loudly, clenching her tight, hot cunt muscles on his fat cock. She was climaxing now, her breasts coming up in a deep blush, her cunt contracting, her juices flowing even more copiously, her hands frantic as she rubbed her nipples and clenched on his cock buried deep in her throbbing cunt.

As her orgasm subsided, she leaned down to give him a quick kiss and he started licking her tits again. She shivered and this shiver and a movement of her hips sent him over the edge, his cock emptying the content of his tight balls into her as he sucked her still engorged nipple.

She collapsed onto him, panting and breathing heavily, as they slowly came to. “Well”, she said eventually, rolling off with a groan onto the dusty, wooden floor. “Well, well, well.”.

He had no energy to say anything.

“My name is Helen, by the way. Why won't you come for dinner? About eight, tomorrow?”

Tuesday, 1 May 2018

Dylan's Lunch

This is an old story, so old that it goes back to before I started to write almost exclusively fem-dom themed smut. It's interesting to see that although it's not explicitly female-dominance focused, it very easily could be, with merely few tweaks. Do you agree, readers dear?


"Oh, baby, I need to cum now, ooh, I'm so close," he groaned. Shannon sucked harder, and then took his cock out of her mouth and licked from his balls upwards along the bottom of his shaft. She used her teeth to gently bite the underside, and Dylan leaned forward to rub the swollen, hot glans on her tits. She licked his balls as he pushed his cock, leaking copious pre-cum, onto her nipples and rubbed hard. He felt the tide of orgasm raising and, unable to hold on any longer, shot his full load onto her flushed breasts. His cum splattered the globes of her breasts, dripped over the nipples and she rubbed it in, her tongue frantically flicking from his balls to his shaft and to her own sticky 

Dylan moved sideways and reached down to her hot, dripping pussy. Her clit was hard and engorged and as he stroked it, she started bucking her hips, pressing against his hand. He kept the rhythm of one hand on her pussy and used the other to stroke and squeeze her breast as she worked herself to a shuddering orgasm. 


Dylan was a boob  man through and through, and he not only loved to caress breasts, but also, of all possible places, preferred to cum on his partners' tits: the bigger, the better; within reason, as he wasn't into freakishly huge or artificially enhanced ones. Shannon had been particularly receptive to his attentions and he missed her a lot after she had gone back to her native Canada having finished her stint at his uni. He enjoyed wanking remembering their fucking sessions and despite a few enjoyable one-night stands he wasn't seeing anybody else on a regular basis. 

That year's summer was hot and sultry and Dylan sometimes regretted taking on the seasonal job at his uncle's decorating company, but he needed the money and the pay was reasonable and hours long. 

That day he was finishing early though, and he was standing in a queue at a popular small sandwich shop on the High Street, enjoying the air blown by the fan standing on the counter, trying to decide on a sandwich he was going to have that day, sweat running down his back under his paint-splattered white overalls which he wore just over his pants that day. 

He noticed the woman standing in front of him, separated by two other people, when she turned round to grab a bottle of water from the fridge. She was much older than him: in her late thirties, perhaps even older. The woman wasn't particular striking, although her well-cut hair was attractively silky, straight , pale blonde. She was quite tall and long legged and the way she was dressed detracted attention  from her broad hips and drew it to what was definitely her best asset.  She was wearing cropped jeans and leather sandals, and a long, loose, short-sleeved white linen shirt, unbuttoned low enough to afford a good glimpse not only of her cleavage but also the lace edge of her bra. A long strand of wooden beads round her neck nestled between her breasts, seeming to suggestively point lower down. Dylan couldn't help but notice: her tits were huge, he couldn't make a precise judgement, what with the clothing and stuff, but he thought they were at least an E cup, maybe even bigger. On a chunky woman like her, this would mean a serious handful. He glanced at the exposed part of her breasts: soft, glowing, pale golden skin, looking supple and unblemished. 

The edge of chocolate-coloured lace of her bra was just visible, and despite the bra and a shirt, Dylan could detect a faint outline of the nipples under the fabric, round and fat, like cherries. Dylan felt a stirring in his pants and  images of licking such nipples and  handling those glorious melons filled his mind with longing, his cock now noticeably harder. He was glad his loose overalls covered any signs of arousal so far. 

He looked away from the enticing cleavage, but not before the woman noticed him glancing and, instead of the expected scorn, gave him a wide smile and what he was sure was a wink. Dylan looked at his feet in blushing embarrassment,  and didn't raise his eyes until the woman made her purchase and left the shop. 

He was served soon after her and quickly walked out of the shop. He turned off the High Street into a narrow side lane between the buildings leading towards the car park and the playing fields by the 
river. He thought about the woman's smile and allowed himself to fantasise about her again, imagining unbuttoning her shirt and rubbing his hard cock along the edge of her bra, her nipples growing bigger and harder under the touch of his hot flesh. 

He almost didn't notice her standing to the side, fumbling in her bag for something. 

"Excuse me," she called and he stopped in his tracks, turning to see her a meter away from him,  a cigarette in her hand. "You don't happen to have a light?" she asked. 

Dylan reached into his pocket and desperately searched for a box of matches that he knew had been there just this morning. He was more nervous than he had been in anybody's presence for a long time, vaguely embarrassed by his fantasies and acutely aware of his cock getting noticeably harder: not yet a semi, but enough to make him conscious of his arousal and the fact that he was just seconds ago imagining himself having sex with this complete stranger, a woman at least fifteen years his senior and clearly completely unaware of what was going through his mind. 

He found the matches, lit one with slightly trembling hands and offer her the light. As she leaned over with her cigarette, sheltering the flame with her hands, he couldn't help having another look at her tits. He could smell her perfume, spicy and sultry, and he thought her nipples had more definition now, clearly visible through the fabric, as if begging to be touched. 

Dylan stepped back and turned to walk away, when she said, "Thanks. By the way.... do you like what you see?" 

He stopped in his tracks, unsure what to say, blushing again, his heartbeat getting faster, and despite the embarrassment, his cock starting to strain at his pants. The woman shot  a quick glance at his crotch and smiled again. "Well, you seem to, " she said and moved closer to him, almost touching him now. "Do you fancy seeing some more?" she asked, a whisper but clear and definite. 

Dylan wasn't sure whether to believe what he was hearing. She could be taking the piss, or she could be trying to provoke him into doing something that could be interpreted as harassment. There were all kinds of nutters about. But her smile seemed genuine and he decided to risk it. "I would love to," he said and looked at her tits again. Her breathing seemed faster now, he could see her breasts raising with each breath and he was sure the nipples were now bigger, harder and more upright. 

"C'mon then. I am parked just round the corner," she beckoned and he followed her without a word. "Are you a painter then?" she asked. 

"Well, not really. I am at the uni in Edinburgh, this is just a summer job. But I am free for the rest of the day, really," Dylan assured her as she clicked her keys and opened the doors to a black Audi estate with dimmed windows. 

"Jump in. Don't worry, I won't kidnap you," she laughed, as if sensing his hesitation. She drove confidently and clearly knew where she was going in more ways than one as they left the town and were soon driving on one of the roads leading towards the hills in the south of the town. Dylan didn't really know what to say, so he said nothing apart from complimenting her on the car. 

"Are you into big boobs in a big way?" she asked eventually. 

"Umm...yes. I love big boobs. Yours are great! All that a guy could dream of!" Dylan blurted out enthusiastically She laughed a low, husky laugh. 

"They are my favourite body part too. I can sometimes come just from breast play alone," she said matter of factly. 

Dylan responded with non-committal "mmm"but his imagination was filled again with fantasies of her bare tits, his rock hard cock exploding in his hand, his cum dripping off her thick nipples. He was now really aroused, his cock semi-erect, his balls tight and hot, and he was dying to touch himself. He looked at the woman, and she responded to his look by licking her top lip with a long, slow stroke of her tongue, over a skew-whiff smile. She took the left hand off the wheel and rubbed her left breast, then proceeded to undo two more buttons of her shirt and pull the left side of it off. 

Dylan could now see her left breast in its full, albeit still wrapped glory. Her bra was sheer lace and he could clearly see her areola, now raised, and the distinctive, round, large, cherry shaped nipple. She rubbed her tit again and then rolled her nipple in her fingers for a few seconds. "Mmmm. Mmmm...I think I need to stop doing that before I cause an accident... but I am dying to have them sucked. I love cum on my tits. Do you think you could...?" 

Dylan's swelling cock was still painfully constrained in his pants but making a visible bulge in his overalls. He still couldn't quite believe the reality of what was happening, but he was now too horny to think too much about it. The woman turned into a wooded dirt track and parked several hundred yards into it, in a wider part of the road near a clearing. She switched the engine off and turned towards Dylan. 

"Oh, get this thing off, would you?" she said impatiently, pointing to his overalls and Dylan unzipped it quickly, exposing his tanned upper body and black boxers containing now a truly raging hard-on. "I'll show you mine if you show me yours!" she said and Dylan pulled the elastic of his boxers down, allowing his cock to spring up. It was hot, red and dying to be touched, a swollen head glistening with drips of pre-cum. 

"Lovely!" the woman exclaimed. She slid her shirt of her shoulders and without further teasing pulled her bra down to let her tits hang out in their full, glorious, bare magnificence. Dylan gasped. They were truly awesome, heavy as expected of breasts that size, but not particularly saggy, with a soft, full roundness that he so loved in large natural tits. The nipples were now looking like fairly large pebbles, and as she rolled them, pulled and rubbed, they seemed to grow even more engorged. A faint flush covered the inner sides of her boobs and she was breathing hard and moaning softly as she played with them. 

Dylan was stroking his cock, trying to limit the speed and force to avoid orgasming too fast. She licked her lips and leaned towards him over the gear stick, holding her tits up with both her hands. 

"Taste?" she enquired. Dylan groaned in response and complied immediately. He licked her nipple with a slow, upwards stroke of the flat of his tongue, then run his tongue in circles round the erect bud, trying to keep it soft but firm. The nipple itself was now in his mouth and he could feel its gorgeous texture, so tempting that he closed his lips and sucked gently. She was now panting and moaning almost continuously as Dylan ate her breasts, his lips caressing the areola, his tongue dancing on the hardness of her fat nipples, his hand supporting, stroking and squeezing the pale golden flesh of the whole breast; his other hand rubbed her other nipple, first with the flat of his palm, then fingers, rolling, tweaking, pulling gently, the harder, almost crushing it in between his fingers; his mouth dripping saliva all over her other tit; then he swapped and rubbed the slippery one while licking the other. 

His hands were both full and his mouth was busy, his eyes closed as he concentrated on pleasuring those wonderful breasts. His cock was close to bursting despite lack of any direct stimulation, and when she reached down between his legs he couldn't help but let out an almost pain-filled moan. 

"I want it on my tits. Rub your hot, hard young cock on my tits. Look how fucking wet you are, dripping without even being touched. Fucking little breast slut, aren't you?" she panted. Her taunts felt playful and hot more than anything else. Dylan felt dizzy, overwhelmed by a tide of lust. Following her command wasn't easy or straightforward as they were separated by the gear stick but when she moved her seat back as far as it would go and Dylan did the same, she could lean further down and let her hanging, flushed, slippery breasts brush his cock. 

He shivered and kept his throbbing dick steady as she held her tits together and rubbed them hard across his glans. She was moaning every time the purple-red head of his cock rubbed against her now rock-hard, erect nipples and as he helped to direct his cock, she started to run her nipple along the bottom side of his shaft, then going back to rubbing his cock head across both of her tits. 

By now Dylan had one of his feet on the steering column, the other on the drive shaft, his back painfully wedged in the door, his hands caressing his balls and base of his cock as she attended to the head with her hand and tits. 

Dylan used all his resources to stop himself from coming just yet. He was incredibly turned on, more than he has ever been, with each stroke and twist exquisitely pleasurable and yet almost painfully heightening his desire to orgasm. 

She seemed to be now overtaken by her own arousal, eyes half closed, panting and moaning, hair dampened with sweat running down her face and smearing her makeup. 

"Come on my tits! Spill your fucking cream on my tits for me! Oooh, yes, yes, oooh," she moaned and he responded by stroking his cock shaft faster and pressing towards her as she frantically rubbed her nipples on his cockhead. 

It didn't take much for Dylan to feel the hot cum rising in his balls; he cried out, a deep growl emerging just as long, thick streams of spunk shot out of his cock onto her breasts. She was holding them tight, squeezed forwards, exposed, engorged and swollen; she moaned even louder when she felt his cum splatter, and started to immediately rub it into the skin of her tits. 

"Oh, oooh, I love it, mmm, this is so fucking good, so much cum, mmmm, fuck, I am so horny, I am so fucking horny, I want to come now, oooh, oooh," she moaned, spreading the thick, sticky spunk all over her chest. Dylan felt as he would never stop ejaculating, the cum was copious beyond anything normal for him, and seeing her rub it in with such a desire seemed to make him squeeze every last drop out. 

Her eyes were closed and her head thrown back, she was working her nipples furiously with both hands, licking her lips at the same time. Dylan, still in the semi aroused early afterglow of his orgasm, couldn't decide whether he should reach between her legs or just let her get on with it as she made no indication that she wished him to do anything. 

Then, led by a sudden impulse of a new desire, he leaned down towards her exposed breasts and started to lick his own cum from them, first around her hand, the from between her fingers. She moaned louder and removed her hand to let him suck the nipple while she concentrated all her attention on her other breast. Dylan licked and sucked with renewed passion, and the bitter-sweet-salty taste of his own jizz had a curiously arousing effect on him: it was less than ten minutes after he shot his load, but he could feel something stirring in his cock again. 

He used his mouth in a slightly rougher way than he had before, and she seemed to respond to this, pushing her tits into his mouth and pulling the skin to make the nipples even larger and tauter. He stopped licking altogether and was now sucking, with his tongue adding additional  pressure around the tip. Her breathing even faster and heavier now, her body went tense and hotter than before. Dylan sucked harder, while squeezing the other one hard between his fingers. She went rigid, then started to shake and screamed "Ohhh, now, now, now, now, fucking hell, oooh, fuck, fuck, yes, yes...yeeessss!" 

It took her a few good minutes to come round and when she did she was smiling widely from under her sweat-dampened hair, relaxed in her seat, slowly stroking her beautiful breasts, now less swollen, but heavily flushed with the post-orgasmic glow. 

Dylan also adjusted his position, his overalls long off and his boxers too, stretched out naked along the passenger seat, his cock semi-erect, his left hand squeezing his balls lightly, his right one massaging the shaft. He could still feel the taste of her sweat and his own cum in his mouth, he could feel her hard nipples and hear her scream as she came. 

He glanced at her again, and although neither he nor herself had ever touched her pussy throughout the whole episode and her left hand was still on her breasts, the right one was sliding into her unzipped jeans. 

" wet....I do like to fuck, too, " she said, smiling at him again. 


Thursday, 5 April 2018

When it's soooo not about your dick it actually is -- on the paradox of denial

I get exasperated by a common confusion between what I see as ''meta'' and what I see as ''in-dynamics'', by the confusion between the ''play'' and the ''reality' (these terms are in quotes on purpose). This is very clear when talking about ''punishment'' -- that's why I dislike the term ''corporal punishment'' and prefer ''impact play'', for example. I understand that in some dynamics people like to play at punishment (the whole bad boy/bad girl thing) and that's absolutely fine if that's what gets your rocks off.

It is also common when talking about denial and chastity. ''This is not about your pleasure'' or ''this is not about your dick'' gets bandied about a lot. I do it myself. But in this one, the distinction between play and real between in-dynamics and meta is even more commonly ignored and it sometimes drives me up the wall.

So let's pick this one apart.

''This is not about your pleasure'' or ''this is not about your dick''  is a fetish fantasy, an aspect of role play -- rooted in the fact that masochistic pleasure lies in masochist's displeasure and that submissive pleasure often has masochistic notes, or ones of sacrifice and self-denial. So far so good, right?

But see this one: it's not about his pleasure so he needs to be denied, unfucked, locked up and forbidden to masturbate? For, for the lack of a better word, real?

C'mon. If it wasn't really about the sub then his (or her, for that matter) orgasm or lack of it wouldn't concern the dom at all. By making a point of the denial we focus on the sub -- on their pleasure-in-denial/frustration. A dom who forbids her sub to come, or masturbate, makes it obviously as much about him as about herself, and thus (assuming consensual dynamic) about his experience.

Do I like denial? Sure. I love it, as something I inflict on my lover. I enjoy it for the whimpers and the begging and other various aspects of eroticised desperation. I enjoy the raw lust it brings to the surface. I enjoy controlling a playmate's access to his dick because it's fun for all those reasons but also -- obviously -- because I like dick and I like playing with dick. NOT, FFS, because I'm not interested in it.

On the other hand, if I want my partner -- especially a vanilla partner who doesn't enjoy denial or any overt dominance -- to actually focus exclusively on my pleasure  with actual disregard for his dick, I obviously won't bother with any of the denial or chastity shtick.

Instead, we'll probably fuck in one or another way, he'll come and then he'll see to my needs and wants. The bonus is that once he's come, he really isn't thinking about his dick, he really is focusing solely on my pleasure. Obviously, doing it in the refraction/slump period isn't that much fun for him, but then at that point it's not about his fun (whether that fun would consist in straightforward pleasure or inverted pleasure-via-frustration).

So if the sex is to be really (on the meta level) not about his dick, there is no need to bother monitoring and controlling said dick. For a woman who doesn't enjoy making it about his dick, either via exercising the control or inflicting the pain of frustration, active orgasm denial would be, surely, a chore. One might as well shrug it off and let him come as much as he wants, as long as he complies otherwise, which he might for all kinds of reasons, maybe because he's submissive who enjoys service, maybe because he likes to reciprocate and share pleasure in a completely vanilla way. 

The way I see it, a dom does exercise in-dynamic control using chastity and denial but that's because she actually gives the sub the denial and associated attention to his pleasure-in-frustration and yes, attention to his - controlled but very much in-focus - dick. Not because she takes anything away from him for real.

That's why the real ''it's not about your pleasure'' active male sexual service is rare to nonexistent in remote/virtual play. It's not really possible, because by the nature of the medium, a virtual lover cannot easily actively pleasure a remote dom. The focus is always on what can be done to the sub partner. 

That is, unless we are talking about a very old fashioned text-based what used to be called cybersex (remember that?). I recall one encounter with an old friend and sometime-lover few months ago, a very enjoyable old-fashioned fantasy sexting exchange which did feel close to what I'm talking about. 

He was just there, co-creating my fantasy, participating and responding in ways he knew I'd enjoy, helping me get off (twice), giving to me his fantasy self. I didn't even know (and I still don't) if he was aroused, masturbating with me, whether he actually came or not. 

It's not that I actively wanted him not to enjoy it, it's that it didn't matter if he did. It really wasn't about his dick. 

Thursday, 15 February 2018

This time of the year (2): For me

Continued from here.

I keep looking, first at your cock; my silent and focused looking, grown from desire but at the same time pushing desire into the background, as shameless as your display, your obedience as bold as my demand. Then at your face, for the first since I told you to strip, directly into your eyes, that smile of mine again, your lips ajar.

"On the bed. On your front. Still for me. No talking."


You obey, as I expect you to, in the low light your body spreads pale gold against the hotel bed white, your arms loosely around your head, not quite protectively, your face sideways and down, averted from the side I am now approaching; still. For me.

I wonder if you can hear me breathe, if my breathing crossed the line from just loud to nearly panting, take the few steps that separate my chair from the bed, sit down on the edge, around your thigh level, lean down. Just a little. Not necessary, but I want to, for some reason. My left hand in the small of your back. The scratch marks fading but still visible, and warmer than the surrounding skin when I touch them with fingers of my right hand.


''Fuck," I say.

You take a deep breath, then exhale, but don't move and don't say anything. Everything feels slow motion but fluid, like an underwater trance. I don't remember ever being as focused as I am now, but I don't think of any plan or a task or an objective. There is only now. I retrace the marks with my fingertips.

Lean lower and touch your skin with my lips. Open them, my breath damp. Tongue, a long lick and my moan, muffled; desire spreading all over my skin.

I shuffle higher on the bed and stroke the nape of your neck, my hand moving into your hair, playing with it, pushing your head into the pillow, my face next to you, laugh that somehow manages not to be a giggle, a whispered 'Good boy' before I bite your earlobe and straighten up, the left hand still in your hair, holding your head in place, the right one taking a lazy swing, landing with a splat on your ass. It's not hard, and I quickly follow it with another one, and another, playful swats with a relaxed palm. That's why the twelfth one comes as a shock: my swing is wider, the impact much heavier, all from the palm, unexpected. You flinch visibly, yelp, tense up to my laughter. I add another smack with similar parameters, followed by a few faster, lighter, sharper ones, fingers mostly, my hand smarting now, pink imprints visible on your butt, the way you tense and relax into each smack reflected in your breathing, heavier, partially muffled by the pillow.

''Getting pretty pink, boy,'' I stop and place both my hands on your ass, lightly, feeling the heat, wanting to dig my nails in and drag them down the reddened skin, stopping myself, for now, listening to your body, sliding my hands down, between your legs, pushing them apart, gently, more of an indication of how I want you to move than a forceful pressure.

"Bend your knees, lift your ass up, keep your head down, try to keep relaxed or the next bit will really hurt,'' I say, panting a little. You obey, I stand up and look at you for a while, such a classic pose.

I had a plan. A sequence of steps. Items I thought I'd use. Things I knew you'd like me to do, maybe even beg me to do if I did it right. Ideas, even. Huh.

But just now the ideas don't matter and what you might want matters even less. I take a bigger breath and reach to my belt, undo it. You can probably hear the slight clang of the buckle against the metal button of the denim skirt. I pull it out, the leather worn and familiar in my fingers. Fold it in half and stretch using both hands. There is a sound, half way between a light thwack and a click. I do it for effect, for the sound that not-quite-precisely foretells that other sound that I am already excitedly waiting for.

I wrap the buckle end around my right hand and get near to you, run the edge of the other end along your back all the way from the nape of your neck down to your reddened ass, let it slide lower between your legs, leave it there for a split second longer, then slowly drag it back up in a meandering line as if tracing yet invisible patterns on your skin, lift it free of your body and take a swing.

The first one is light, as is the second, but I'm impatient now, I want to hit you harder, I want to see the welts come up and feel you squirm and moan. I stand with my feet further apart, and swing again, the leather splatting hard across your right buttock.


Faster and harder. Maybe I should have tied you up after all, though you are still holding up to the impact and the pain, holding up to the desire covering my skin fluid and viscous.

I use the time between strikes to breathe, deeper, louder, more elaborate, streams of exhaled and inhaled air like a caress on my lips, the lips dry, flushed swollen and ajar. Your ass is now covered in marks, a nearly uniform dark pink background to a chaotic hash of raised welts, some of them edged with thinner, darker, graze-like lines made by the edge of the belt. I strike lower, on the more sensitive skin of your upper thighs and you yelp, flinch, nearly flail, but stay in position. I make the belt shorter and smack your butt again, the slightly curved end imprinting red crescents on your inflamed skin.

You are panting in loud, hissing breaths, your muscles flexing and hips moving as if to adjust, balancing the avoidance and the seeking of pain, the obedience and the desire to escape.

I laugh with the sheer joy of this act as much as with the residue of my own nervousness, the belt now longer again, a big flat whack across your buttocks, your loud moan, an inarticulate groan that morphs into an ohhhhh that turns into my name, a moan that I inhale and to which I respond with my own.


I want to touch you again, so I unwind and drop the belt and step closer, my palms on your ass, the heat of red skin and the raised marks under my fingers.

Fuck fuck fuck.

Rubbing, stroking, mapping the remade surface of your body, fingertips and then, after a second's hesitation, my lips, barely touching, my cheek, hot against the heat of my marks. I slide my hand under your belly and find your cock, rigid and warm, slick with precum, grab harder, stroke, my other hand pressing, then lightly slapping your stinging butt down, making it thrust into the vice-like grip, your panting faster, in wincing pleasure.

I stop and you visibly baulk, then relax in what feels like a disappointed relief. I push you back down, stretch myself on the bed, gather your naked body in my arms, your breath warm and damp on my neck, my legs still in stockings and boots hooked around yours, the soles rubbing up and down your calves.

I bunch my skirt up and guide your right hand underneath.

''Feel me, boy.''

You groan when your fingers meet the damp silk, I arch my back up a little inviting the touch, you start stroking slowly along the wet fabric clinging to my slit, upwards, finding the hard and sensitive bud of my erect clit, making me catch my breath and moan, dig my fingers in your hair, push you where you belong.

''On your knees on the floor. Take my boots off first.''

You slide off the bed and give me a smile that feels broad and dizzy, I can't help but respond to it with my own, and a low chuckle, part satisfaction part joy.

You are on your knees by the bed now and leaning down, your hands stroking the leather, stopping at the buckles, hesitating at the zip pull.

''Go on then. You know you want to," I'm laughing again when your head drops lower, your lips touching the leather, your tongue taking what seems to be an experimental lick.

''Upwards. To the edge.''

We are playing the scenarios we have shared as fantasies so many times, the buttons and levers we imagined, and I still - still - still - still - find it amazing that it appears to be working, that the flesh on flesh either matches what we spent so much time imagining or that the fantasy has managed to trump the reality even when pushed into this reality, but whatever it is, it's patently working.

Your tongue slides off the leather onto the nylon of the stocking, wetly tracing the top edge of the boot.


I adjust my position, shuffle my butt to the edge and hitch up the skirt again, pulling your head in.

''Lick, slut.''

Your face is buried between my wide-spread legs, my knees up, my hips raised by a pillow.

''Inner thighs.''

Your tongue and lips touch my skin above the stocking, wet, slithery, exquisite and electric, a trail of kisses and licks along the edge of the fabric, occasionally sliding under the edge but just a little, I don't know who's teasing whom now, not that it matters. I want more and pull your head in position.

''Lick my knickers.''

I'm floating in a sea of pleasure and lust, your mouth making the already wet fabric soaked, your breath a warm steam, your tongue perfect, pliant, probing and caressing, somehow more thrilling because separated from my skin by the thin layer of drenched silk. My hands are -- loosely -- on your head, neither pushing nor pulling, just there, ready to adjust if needs be, one of them slides lower to your ear, fingers squeezing the fleshy lobe, nails digging, just a little bit. My legs are spread wide open, one foot braced against the bed, the other placed, lightly, on your upper back.

The pleasure, basic and all-of-the-body, washes over me in slow waves, I won't come like this of course, but I don't really want to, the earlier urgency is gone, this is a slow and perhaps the most selfish of all enjoyments when you nearly disappear for a moment and all there is is pure sensation.

-- tbc, of course.

Monday, 15 January 2018

Base and basic

We talk and write a lot on the Interwebs about desire being a thing of the mind, about the brain being the most important sexual organ, about "sapiosexuality" even. We write smut that borders poetry and sonnets dripping with filthy name calling, but sonnets nevertheless. We do text-only sexting and go on and on and on about seductive words and the elusive mental connection that trumps, or transcends, or oh-so-perfectly expresses the carnal.

And it's all very true. And yet. Some days it's not about the sexual magic, or the words, or the connection, or the intensity of the dynamic, or a mindblowing-orgasm-as-glorious-oblivion. Some days it's as carnal, as of-the-body as it gets.

Some days it's about the hungry cunt and nothing else really matters at all. The insistent sensation - not even an emotion, never mind a feeling or thought - a heavy fullness, a tension in the lower belly and breasts, as if your pants have suddenly shrunk even though you know they haven't. Erect clit and blood-flushed labia, slick and slippery dampness, swollen, tingly lips impossible not to lick or touch, dilated pupils that make you squint in a bright light.

It gets more insistent, and more physical, a constant reminder of the basic and base want; desire as a need for release more than anything else. All of the skin warm and sensitive and wanting, whole body a mirror for that hungry cunt.

And when you get it, it's not about sharing or giving. The orgasm less of a overwhelming wave of ecstatic pleasure than a powerful spasm of release, strong but brief, intense but focused.

Any fantasy will be abrupt, disjointed and utilitarian, and if there is another flesh-and-blood body there, conveniently placed to be grabbed and used, it will be a mere tool, a flesh-and-blood plaything, a cock a better model of a dildo, fingers and mouth intelligent toys for satisfying that need,

Some days it's about nothing else but that hungry cunt.

Saturday, 13 January 2018

Fuck first

Fuck first.
Fuck as soon as possible.

Of course the initial passion won't last. It would be stupid to expect it to. Long term relationships - dare I say love - are about intimacy and commitment. These need time to grow.

But fuck first. Fuck before intimacy grows, fuck before even a hint of commitment

Fuck when it's only about fucking. Fuck when the passion is the only thing there is. HAVE that time of obsessive infatuation when you literally can't keep hands off each other.

Don't mistake it for intimacy, but relish it for the wonder that it is. Don't hope for it to last, but let it overwhelm and consume you.

And in the rare cases in which love appears, if intimacy and commitment grow just as the flames start turning into embers, you will have it. 

Five years down the line, you will look back and even a glimpse will make you shiver. Twenty years down the line, you will look at each other and say “Remember when?” and even the echo will make your skin electric and your smile wider.  

You will have it. Not the current thrill, but the amber glow of its memory at the very base, hot, pure, bright, simple and true.

Fuck first.

Monday, 8 January 2018

If I Could Have It, It Would Be For My Use Only

You'd come only for me. I love the idea of fucking with your brain so much that you can never come without my permission ever again.
And now I’ve found this prompt, a perfectly serendipitous stimulus to say it again, to copy and paste and select the words, to turn them inside out from private to public, make a potentially public, implicitly exhibitionist display of a private desire.
A desire that manifests as greed for a breathless absolute of ruination, a fantasy of ownership utterly limited yet absolute within this limitation, both symbolic and corporeal.

If I could have it - if I could really, really have it - I would take your orgasms. All of them. Whenever you come, however you come, whoever you come with, you would come only for me. And whenever you don’t come, your face twisted with a grimace of frustration turning into pain, every moan and whimper more desperate than the one that preceded it, your very self receding into need, it would be for my pleasure too. You would not-come only for me.

Tuesday, 12 December 2017

Dominance and submission are not really kinks

I'm probably going to use the term "dominant" quite a lot in this blog, so for clarity here is my personal and subjective definition.

When I say "dominant" here,  I mean "sexually dominant". And what I mean by "sexually dominance" is a desire for, a want of,  a sexual arousal and satisfaction resulting from being in control of sexual interaction.

That's it.  Nothing else and nothing more. I'm not claiming it as a correct definition,  or the best one, it's what works for me and what I mean when I use this term.

Understood like that, dominance/submission is not even a "kink" in the way most other kinks are. It's more of a preference,  a style of doing sex and relating in matters sexual,  a dimension on which everyone who's not asexual can be placed.  It's a "how", not a "what".

In its more extreme forms,  it finds its expression in formal  D/s or other kinks that are often included under the BDSM umbrella.

But it's of course also perfectly possible to have kinks which often correlate with dominance/submission without being obviously dominant or submissive. Sado-masochism,  cross-dressing,  sensory play,  exhibitionism,  pegging are often used as part of D/s play but can also be done without power exchange or counter-intuitively to their obvious associations.  A masochistic dominant flogged by her submissive or a female submissive anally pleasuring her male dom are just two obvious examples.

This confusion between specific kinks and dominance/submission combined with the Hierarchy of Worthy Kink  often seems to result in somewhat disparaging comments the high clergy of HoWK make about "fake doms", "vanilla kinksters", people being "just bottoms" and a whole lot of other snobby,  hierarchical bullshit.

All that is well known stuff.  But stay with me a little longer.  What if we look at it from the other side? What if we remove the kinks from dominance/submission?

I believe it's perfectly possible.  I believe you can be sexually dominant or sexually submissive and not have any "kinks" that would be recognisable as kinks - no freak to get on,  no paraphillias,  no weird shit arousal triggers,  no fetishes, not even liking for rough sex.

It's surely possible to be "traditional vanilla"  in everything you do -  let's say, prefer piv sex in the bedroom, with low lights and no props, a bit of oral - and still be dominant or submissive: to deeply enjoy and get off on being in control or being controlled.

It's accepted that "vanilla kinksters" are prowling all around. I give you vanilla doms and subs, dear readers. They are out there, not even hiding, in plain sight. Ask your auntie Dot.

Thursday, 7 December 2017

[the last time] 1KB, last modified 2 years ago

I came yesterday, in a slow swirl of pleasure, from my fingertips to the core of my cunt and the tips of my swollen breasts. You were kneeling between my thighs, moaning perfect and you told me you were mine, mine, all mine, and I came on maybe the fourth or fifth "please".

(No. That's not true. I came watching a quivering mess of a 26 year old policeman from Oregon whose name I never asked hump the floor as he licked the carpet with a sandpaper dry tongue, a fat buttplug in his ass, twisting the clamps on his nipples, almost passing out with need.  I'd seen him gang banged and abused, covered in cum and blood and I hurt him more as a punishment for enjoying that. I'd kept him on the edge for the last two hours and he asked for more and more and more and I came, and then came again, and then I came for the third time, before eventually letting him jerk off, he took less than 30 seconds. But yes, it was on the fourth or fifth 'please'.)

[But that's not true anymore or I'm going to make it not true because the last time I came is now.]

Friday, 1 December 2017

This time of the year (1): Catch and see

It's cold, colder even than the date on the calendar and the early nightfall would make me prepared for. The time before the high Christmas rush of expectation but long after the last vestiges of the summer got swept with the rotting leaves, the time just before the first snow, the time of wet pavements and damp air seeping into your bones with a permanent drizzle. I'm slouching with my back to the wall, few metres from the door to the pub in which I was supposed to be fifteen minutes ago, the energy spelled out by the fast footsteps of my rushing here suddenly gone, the focus dissolved into a suffocating cloud of anxiety.

I take a deep breath, counting to ten seconds on the exhale and on the inhale. Two more, my heartbeat still fast, searching for the thrill in the fear that's now got merely clammy. I can't do it, can I? I'm not actually going to do it, am I? And even if I am, even if I do make those last few steps and walk into the warm interior filled with voices and a smell of coffee and booze, what is the chance that I won't be walking away after half an hour's empty wait? More deep breaths, glancing from the corner of my eye at the pub door just in case you are there, waiting, after all.

I dig a packet of cigarettes from my pocket, manage to pull one out, my fingers shaking; stick it between my lips, they feel dry and cardboard numb, can't find a lighter, mumble a ''fucking hell'', under my breath, but loud enough to attract a glance from a passer by, but that gives me a narrower focus I actually need and I start going through my pockets more methodically.

The lighter's flame appears suddenly, in all my funk I didn't notice anybody approach me but I am grateful for the kind gesture, leaning down a little to the light, instinctively protecting it from a gust by a cupped hand, and only when I take in and quickly exhale the first drag I notice that the hand holding the lighter is shaking and only when I raise my eyes to say thank you I see, and realise, and hear ''Hi, M,'' and the shock of it is not any lesser for the fact that this is what I came here for, and all the words I had in such oversupply before are stuck tight in my throat and all I can do is smile stupid and giddy until I catch your eyes and my smile disappears slowly, I drop my cigarette and reach out with my hand.

I have to write it in here, don't I? The private sign, so overused that it's turned cliche now, my palm on your cheek and my thumb tracing your mouth ajar, sliding in, probing, penetrating, a not-so-subtle hint of what might come later, your tongue soft and slippery and searching, your lips closing gently just as mine open over teeth nearly-clenched in a hint of a snarly smile.

I'm panting, all the anxious expectation and suspense and anticipation that preceded this spilling out, coating my skin with a glow that I can hardly believe isn't visible, coating my mind with a flickering forest of bluewhite flames, I'm letting it take me higher, and now, suddenly, I don't even know how or when, I'm not leaning with my back against the damp wall of a late November street but pinning you against it, my left hand in your hair, clutching, pulling your head slightly back and to the side, probably uncomfortably, I don't give a slightest fuck if so; my right hand around your left wrist, pushed onto the bricks fast and harsh until you ''ouch'' in pain, then pushed along the brick, grazed some more; my mouth on your neck vaguely in the region of your ear, ''Hello, boy,'' I whispershiss, then get my face even closer, smelling you, fucking hell how much I wanted this, all those years, all those years until I was sure neither of us needed or wanted it, until it was safe to arrange a meeting, as per widely publicised recommendations, public place, not too long, we'll have a coffee or a drink, chat and laugh, sentimental melancholy of things impossible and others that could have been, shared nostalgia for a long-gone virtual adventure never made flesh, and yet I am here, my breath damp on your skin, my tongue tracing your carotid, sliding all the way down to the clavicle, tasting you dizzy, my left knee pushed between your legs, my eses closed, forgetting to breathe then remembering again in a frantic gulp, then stepping back, looking at you from a foot away, ''Coffee? Whisky? Herbal infusion?'', I say, giggling, my right hand now on your chest, as if I had to keep touching you, as if it was physically impossible not to.

You nod a yes, I lick my upper lip, the air is damp and cold but feels like cinders sliding down my throat, ''Actually, I booked a room,'' I smile, a normal, playful smile now, a little challenging, eyes darting to yours, almost-but-not-quite-locking, shifting away, defusing; ''Actually, I booked a room too,'' you offer, also not quite looking at me at first, then we both do, laughter bubbling up, I'm shaking my head, ''Once a slut always a slut,'' you shrug a yes, as if it was an obviously shared understanding, comfortable now, we go to get that drink.


Less obvious, less tense, less wired, less easy later. The room is on the tenth floor and in the lift, we both look at the floor a little awkwardly, then at each other, then away.

''Turn round,'' I say, suddenly, something -- something different from the initial desperate lust that drove me in those first minutes -- emerging, and my current self allowing it to rise and step forward.

''Turn round and face the wall. Place your hands flat on the wall at shoulder height,'' I repeat, elaborating.

''Yes, Ma'am,'' you reply, your voice suddenly slower, thicker, almost slurred in a way that the couple of drinks we've shared doesn't get close to justifying.

My hand moves to the lift's control panel, finger presses the ''stop'' button, the lift halts between the floors. I step closer to you, stand directly behind, slide my hands under your shirt, feel your skin all the way down to your shoulders, warm and dry, not yet seen, I can't wait, but for now I merely dig my nails in and drag them down, two paralel tracks shivering down your back. I can feel you tense up, brace yourself, stifle a groan, then relax with my flat palms on your hips. I want to pull your shirt off, see the marks before they fade, taste them. My mouth is dry, air thick and sharp in my throat. I'm not sure if I remember ever wanting anything as much as I want this, now, all of it, so much that I don't even know where to start.

I unblock the lift, you remain in position until we get to our floor, only moving when I indicate it's OK for you to do so, the logistic realities intervene in the meantime by means of keys and doors and room layouts until I'm sitting down in the chair, my legs stretched out and crossed at my ankles, and you are standing in front of me, a few feet distant.

''Strip for me.''

You look at me, ours eyes meet and I smile a little, just one side of my mouth, your eyes dark and steady.

Your jacket drops on the chair to your left, your hands move to undo the buttons of your shirt, slowly but without hesitation, neither coy nor embarrassed. I move my eyes down, to your fingers. You are taking your time, leaving your buttons undone one by one, a lighter strip of skin in the opening of the shirt, a glimpse of a smooth chest and a shadow of a fine trail of hair leading down. You lean down briefly, your eyes still on me, take off your shoes and socks, move them to the side, straighten up. Your gaze still on me, I can feel it somewhere around my forehead, top of my head, looking at me looking at you.

This is not a show, there is no teasing in the way you slide the shirt off your shoulders, fold it and place it on the coffee table, your movements, slow, deliberate and precise in what feels more like a ritual than a seductive gradual exposure. You undo your belt, pull out and roll it. A hand extends to the coffee table, the belt gets placed on top of the shirt, but you are still facing me, watching me watching you. It's hypnotic, and I am not sure who the subject and who the hypnotist is here.

Your fingers undo the button of your jeans and pull down the zip, your hands move smoothly to your hip bones and pull the trousers down, to your knees and lower, until you can step out of them, pick them up and roll loosely before placing on the coffee table next to the shirt and belt. You are standing straight now, your hands loose at your sides. I can see the lines left by summer shorts, half way across your thighs and above the waistband of your boxers, your skin paler between the areas that retain the heat of the southern sun even at this time of the year. I can see the outline of your cock pressing against the checked red fabric, and I let another skewed smile creep on my face.

You have stopped now. I give you few seconds. I am tempted to say something about the lengths a woman would go to if she's denied an online dick picture, quickly stifle an emerging giggle, let the invisible wire connecting us stay taut, the air thicken with anticipation.

"I said 'strip'."

I can hear a louder inhale, a slight hiss of air going in through your nose, then "Yes, Ma'am."

Your hands moving again, fingers hooking behind the waistband, pulling the boxers down, your feet lifting, stepping out of them, until you are standing in front of me completely naked, cock hard, grown fully erect between my repeated command and your compliance, your chest and midsection rising and falling in deep breaths that feel like you are trying to purposefully calm yourself down.

I keep looking, first at your cock; my silent and focused looking, grown from desire but at the same time pushing desire into the background, as shameless as your display, your obedience as bold as my demand. Then at your face, for the first since I told you to strip, directly into your eyes, that smile of mine again, your lips ajar.

"On the bed. On your front. Still for me. No talking."

--- continued here

Sunday, 26 November 2017

Going under

I am sitting on the leather sofa in the living room by the fire, the logs burning well, my legs stretched out on the rug, the first drag of a spliff I have just rolled and lit dry and rasping in my lungs, then mixing with alcohol and lust, spreading throughout my body in golden, red crested shimmers. He walks into the room, naked but for the towel around his hips, makes the few steps from the door towards me, stands there without a word. I can hear his breathing, then a muffled gasp when he sees what's there on the low coffee table.

“Get rid of that towel, J, and come down here,” I say, and he does as told, dropping to his knees by my feet, completely naked now, sitting on his heels, eyes down, as I straighten up, lean over, take the black leather collar off the table.

“Do you want this? Do you want to wear it for me?”

He nods, almost imperceptibly.

“Say it, boy.”

“Yes, M. I want it. Please, M,” he says, his head bowed lower, his shoulders visibly tensing, shaking slightly, then relaxing a little with a long exhale when I reach out around his neck, buckle the collar on, my fingers lingering as I check that is neither too tight nor too lose.


My right hand on the back of your neck, pressing slightly with just a little more than its own weight, the short hair at the nape rough under my fingers,  your breathing slowing, deepening so I can see and feel the regular rising and falling of your shoulders, so I can believe, more and more, that you are actually here, on your knees, at my feet, your eyes down to the floor, my hand warm and steady, there, as the seconds and then the minutes pass, as the wonder becomes our reality.

I pull gently on one of the D-rings to get you to straighten up, my right foot moves along the slope of your thigh, slowly up to your cock, find you hard again, getting harder now that my toes are scraping along the shaft and curling around the cockhead, my heel pressing at the base.

“Down on your back,” I say and you stretch yourself on the rug along the sofa, your chest raising in exaggerated breaths, your cock under my right foot as my left one moves to your face, “You may use your hands, boy.”

You take my left foot between your hands and start kissing and licking, toes first, sucking each, your tongue between them, then back along to the tips of my dark red toenails and along the cuticle line.

I get your mouth to open a bit wider, push in for a short moment; it feels weird, as if I was raping your mouth with my foot, obscene beyond the drooling obscenity of a foot fetish, and yet hot, so hot I moan and press my other foot harder onto your cock, then lower to your balls, pushing them down towards your body, then the floor, crushing harder as my hips lift from the settee.

I withdraw my toes from your mouth, let you kiss and lick and suck more, lips and flat, slow tongue on the instep, up toward my ankle, then down to the sole, the curve of the arch, it would tickle if you did it with gentle fluttering touches but you seem to know that more pressure, broader strokes are needed. I move my foot slightly, press my heel between your teeth, the sole along your cheek, my toes by your ear, then back down.

There is something unbearably arousing in this prolonged contact between the very lowest point of my body and your face and mouth, and it's not just the immediate pleasure of your kisses and licks on my skin. They call it 'worship' and that's exactly how it feels, you down there prostrate under my feet and moaning for more.

I let the pleasure wash in waves over my body. The combination of tiredness, booze and weed make my skin feel like thick velvet, warm and furry; slightly numb and yet extra sensitive, new layers of response to the sensation appearing and developing, spreading; trails of feeling curling round my body up from my feet; I can immerse myself in what you are doing now, my muscles relaxing, my right foot letting go off your cock which springs back up as I adjust myself, pull my left foot away, reach down, grab the central ring of your collar and pull you up onto the sofa.

This is a bonus foot fragment of a much longer femdom narrative. If this appeals, check out:

No decorum

A follow up to this little tale, moving it away from foot fetish alone to more of a kinky F/m scenario. It wasn't meant to go like this, but here we are. 

I take a gingerly few steps across the drive, he follows me in, through the hall and into the living room where I collapse on a messy sofa covered with a mess of books, clothes and unspecific household items. I eye him carefully, standing in the door, my boots still in his hand, looking a little unsure but smiling a little too, looking hopeful but not as if he was going to push anything, and the memory - the feeling itself - of our little encounter on the bench by the carpark comes back to me, the bubble is still there.
I'm tired though, weary and stiff, my body feels numb despite the still present damp warmth between my legs and the echo of his mouth on my foot, so I stretch my legs out on the rug, ankles crossed, and wave my hand towards him.
''Just dump them here. Bathroom is off the hall, there should be a bowl and other stuff there.''
His smile grows bigger and he turns back and disappears in the hall, to emerge in few minutes carrying a square plastic washing bowl that I normally use for my more delicate underwear filled with hot water, and what looks like at least three of my best towels over his forearm. The pockets of his jacket seem to be stuffed with other bathing supplies and it all looks a bit silly and a bit touching and I am now sure I do want tonight to continue, and I'll worry about what to do next afterwards.
He puts one of the towels on the rug in front of me, the bowl on top, then drops to his knees and reaches to my feet, rolling the bottoms of my trousers up, his fingers straying lower but not remaining there,  before I put them in the bowl. The water is hot, but not burning, the splash of bath oil fills the air with jasmine, rose and lavender, and when he starts washing my feet I stop thinking of pedicures or of miner's wives in coaltown cottages, because although his touch is firm and practical, it's also undoubtedly, unmistakeably erotic, his fingers, slippery with soap and water, rubbing my skin, carefully, thoroughly, toes first, one by one, than between them, taking his time, moving to the soles, mostly still with his fingers but occasionally reaching for a flannel. He moves to my ankle next, more of a massage than a scrubbing, pressing the tired muscles and rubbing the swollen parts.
It's all happening in silence, apart from my occasional sigh and a ''yes, that's great'' of confirmation and encouragement, and I can hear my own breathing, and I can hear his, maybe a little deeper and faster than it would be normally but not in any way obvious. When he's through with the washing, he moves the bowl/towel ensemble to the side and places my feet on another towel, this time it's the big, thick, pale grey bath sheet which makes a luxurious nest. I expect him to start drying them with as much care as he put into the washing but instead he sits on his heels and picks my right foot, still covered with the film of water, up in both hands, leans down, gives me the same look he did at the bench and when I nod with a smile, brings it to his mouth, licking, kissing and then licking again, the damp of his saliva mixing with the damp of the water.
This is turning me on again, and I sigh and moan a little to show him how I'm enjoying it and to let him know he should go on, which he clearly takes seriously because the next moment he's on his back on the floor, my right foot still in his hands but now directly above his face, the left one still on the towel on the floor next to his shoulder.
He focuses on the sole next, his lips moving slowly, almost methodically, starting with the little toe and along the outer edge, firmer on the tougher skin of the heel, I can feel his teeth, biting but not painfully, than the inner edge, towards the arch, his tongue probing, testing, lingering, tasting, especially between patches of skin with different texture, tracing and mapping my sole and however ridiculous it might sound it feels like he's making love to my foot.
I sigh and adjust my position, unzip my trousers again, start slowly touching myself, wet and hot and starting to throb, arch my back a little which makes my foot push down on his face and he lets it happen, his mouth open and his breathing now close to panting. I move the right one up against him, make it creep up his side and to his cock, full, hard, straining against the fabric of his trousers.
''Turn sideways. No… take your pants off first, then turn on your side, the other way round… do the other one now…'' I stammer. He stops, with a little delay that feels like coming up for air more than reluctance, gets up and starts removing his trousers, pants, socks. Our eyes meet and I can't help but laugh a little, to him rather than at him, in wonder at this thing we are doing here, the bubble of sex that surrounds us and in which all that matters is the mutual need. He smiles back, his eyes growing wider when he sees me pulling my jeans and panties off, my legs open wide and wanton, my fingers emphasising rather than concealing the slick spread of my cunt, the swollen bud of my erect clit emerging between the labia a perfect counterpart to his rigid cock.
''Oh fuck….'' he groans, back on his knees, closer to me, leaning lower.
''Do the other one, I said,'' I don't know how or why I decided to do it, why I am not doing the obvious, the natural thing here and pulling him in, making him use that clearly accomplished mouth of his between my legs, but I know that's what I want just now so there is no reason not to suggest it, even if the suggestion comes out somewhat harsh and demanding.
He moans again but does what I told him to do, attending to my other foot as I focus on the pleasure pooling between my legs, as I get closer to the plateau on which I can stay for a while before reaching the edge of my orgasm, not caring now about the sounds I make or the movements or the view he might have from down there, until I have had enough of that, until I want more and different, and pull away from him, get up and make for the door.
''Come on,'' this comes clipped and harsh again, not because I want to humiliate him but because all I can think about now is my own need and this man whose desire lit that flame has now - at least for this moment - become nothing but a tool of its fulfillment.

He follows me to the bedroom, a couple of steps behind me, and waits expectantly when I stretch myself on the bed, on my front, my feet hanging off the edge of the bed, my legs slightly apart but not enough to let him see anything much.

I make myself comfortable and, with my head on my crossed arms, give him a glance across the dim room and call ‘’C’mere. Get to work. My soles, now.’’

In less than an instant he’s on his knees down there, his mouth and hands eager and beautiful, touching, stroking, licking, stopping, perhaps to look at my soles, the pressing and sucking again, almost all of the muscular tension of the whole day gone now, replaced by the spreading glow of arousal, my skin supple and warm, my cunt dripping with desire that is less directed at than facilitated by what he’s doing for me.

I raise my hips a little, my pelvis feels full, flushed and hot, I want to be touched. My feet spread wider, I am sure he can see up between my legs now, and even if he can’t, he’ll be able to smell me. I want his mouth elsewhere now.

‘’Come up and kiss down my spine, slut,’’ I say, the ‘’slut’’ unexpected yet bizarrely fitting.

He obeys wordlessly, I don’t look at him but can feel his body next to mine, his erection brushing my thigh when he leans down, his lips slow and precise on the back of my neck, moving down, my hips lifting up to meet him, his hands on my buttocks, his moan in response to my ‘’Yess, there…’’ when his tongue slides down to my ass and brushes my anus before getting the first taste of my wetness.

He’s stretched between my legs now and I’m rubbing myself on his face, all vestiges of decorum gone, panting and moaning, first on all fours, then shifting up, so I’m nearly sitting on him, my thigh cramping a bit but I ride it through, my hands in his hair, pulling, the focus of my desire moving from the exquisite sensations flowing over my skin to what I am doing with him and to him, the sounds he makes appear pained and this is turning me on in the most unexpected ways and I want more of it, fucking more, and more, shifting again and pushing him into a place that would fit what I want and need now.

I’m leaning against the headboard, my knees up, he’s flat on his back on the bed still, looking dazed, sticky faced and a little bit breathless.

''On your front and fucking lick,'' I hiss, my toes brushing his lips as he follows my command, the thrill of doing it like a jolt through my whole body, suddenly aware that I could actually kick him, make his lip split on his own teeth, make his bleed here for me, and maybe he would lash back out at me, but maybe he wouldn't and that possibility makes me dizzy with desire of a kind I have not experienced before, the same one that prompts me to push hard against his face and mouth, make him gag and groan in discomfort.

I'm rubbing myself furiously now, my clit like a hard and slippery nub under my fingers, so sensitive that I can't even touch it directly. I grab blindly to the side of the bed, grasp a diIdo I use occasionally and slide it deep into my throbbing cunt, the pleasure of this act a huge gasp and a swearing moan. He's still licking and kissing my feet but I can see him glance up to all the action between my legs now and then.

''Stop... just watch me. Don't... touch... yourself... without... asking....'' I stutter, high up there on the plateau of my pleasure, his frustration and obedience rising the heat.

He does as he's told, though his breathing is fast and loud and when I moan he responds with small, quickly stifled moans of his own. I get close, closer, almost there, my pleasure the whole of my world, the man I brought to me bed a panting shadow on the very periphery of it, his waiting, his patience, his at this moment utter focus on what I am experiencing an afterthought, a sweetly hot one but no more than that.

I come alone, in a huge, convulsive shiver spreading from my toes to the top of my head, and spilling at my core, a scream and a laugh few seconds later.

I stretch and relax, my right foot sliding to his crotch, now I remember him again, grateful and happy, with no urgency.

''Please...'' he whispers, and I answer with a not-quite-dismissive ''OK, go on then. On my feet," his hand a blur, his panting moan turning into a deep groan, the sticky warmth of his release splattering and dripping off my instep.

''Clean it up now."

I'm not really thinking he will, but it seems worth trying, the newly found role talking through me more than me talking from the role, his breath warm on my toes as he leans down to obey.