Thursday, 19 July 2018

The twist in the kink

Another sample from a novella-length series of scenes. Check the link for the full story - or just enjoy this part.


No, it's not what you think.

I step away.

I walk out of the door and you follow me to my bedroom. The bed has been made, the sheet clean and smooth, the cover pulled aside. There are pillows ready, and a few lengths of smooth, shiny black rope have been neatly placed near the headboard.

I look at you and take off my top. I am wearing a body of plain black lycra, the sheer cups of the bra section showing my nipples, hard and darkened, ready to be touched and licked.

I reach under my skirt and pull off the panties, damp and smelling of my arousal, drop them on the floor. I leave my stockings and skirt on and look at you, waiting expectantly, your cock not as stiff as it was earlier but not entirely limp either.

And you still don't know, do you?

I sit on the edge of the bed and reach for one of the thinner pieces of rope.

“C'mere, boy.”

You come near, getting fully erect within seconds of my touching you. I tie your junk, round the base and then in a cross between your balls, tight enough to be felt and effective but not as tight as to have you lose blood supply any time soon. Your balls are smooth, shiny, bulging; the skin stretched and hot. Your cock is rock hard  now and you moan again when I lean my head down to grab it and lick around it. It feels like we've done it hundreds of times. Actually, we have, in one way or another, haven't we?

My tongue moves slowly on your skin, smooth, wet licks that have you gasp and shiver.

“Mmmm. I love this. I want to slap it now.”

“Please. Please do, Ma'am. I need it...”

And so I do what you're asking for and you reel a little again and moan again, and I moan too, a deep ooooh turning into a louder, hoarser, lower 'Ohhhh fuck...'.

I am so turned on now, so wired up that I almost – almost – give up the plan, interrupt the script that I have in my head in order to just push you on the bed, hurt you some more the way I love hurting you and the way I know you love being hurt, until I am so close to orgasm that a touch of my fingers combined with your tongue would make me explode.

But no.

“Now, J,” I say, getting up and hooking one of fingers of my left hand in a D-ring of your collar.

“Yes, M?”

I jerk my head sideways, indicating the rope still there on the bed.

“These are not for you, this time.”

You're quiet.

“I am not asking you to dominate me, J.”

You're still quiet and now I think I've blown it. I think you won't be able to do it, either because you aren't able to or because it's a turn off for you or because you don't trust yourself to. Or because you can't even understand what I am talking about.

I move a little closer, and my hip brushes against your groin, your cock still rock hard.

“You. Will. Do. Exactly. And. Only. What. I. Say. When I say it. How I say it.”

My voice is slow and measured, the words coming out in what would be staccato if I picked up the pace a bit.

Your eyes are down now. I let go of the collar and cup your chin in my hand, gently, running my thumb along and between your lips, in the gesture that's become a part of a ritual between us, the tip of you tongue momentarily wet and stiff on my skin.

“Lick it, J. Like a good slut.”

You do, as you did before, sucking and then using your lips and flat tongue on my palm, in between my fingers in those spaces where all my tension, and pain, and desire and excitement focus so much, then across my palm again and down to my wrist.

“Now let go,” I say, even though I don't really want you to stop.

Your breathing is faster again, eyes half-closed, and you drop to your knees obediently when I put my hands on your shoulders.

“Good boy. Remind me who owns you.”

“You do, M.”

“Who owns your slut mouth and your hands and your cock?”

“You do, M. I'm yours.”

“That's my boy.”

“You will do what you are told, won't you, J?” My hand is playing with your hair, your eyes down.

“Yes, M. I will. I will try. It won't be... easy.”

I laugh. It seems odd to have you say that just now, after everything I've put you through, but I understand what you mean. It won't be easy for me either, the jarring clash between giving you the physical means to take control while demanding that you still – more so, even – give it to me. And it will be harder for you, because I know that you make a much more convincing top that I have ever made a sub. Just not with me.

“I trust you. I would not let anybody else do this. But I know you will do it exactly as I want it done.”

“Yes, M.”

“C'mon then. Up you get,” I run my fingers through your hair again, grab a handful, together with your ear and pull you up, before letting go and climbing onto the bed.

You're standing next to it,  looking slightly baffled and a bit unsure, but there is that little smile in the corners of your mouth and I am starting to think it might work after all.  

I sit back against the headboard and pick up a decent length of the rope, roll it into a neat coil and throw it at you, “Tie my wrists to the headboard. Start with the left one. Use secure loops but not too tight. I will tell you if I am uncomfortable.”

You catch the rope and tighten your fingers on it, as if pondering something, then suddenly you're here, holding my hand in yours again. I wriggle down the bed so my head is where I want it to be eventually and I am now laying flat on my back, my left arm semi-extended towards the headboard.

“Kiss my wrist again.”

Mouth on my skin, steaming damp, your tongue touching lightly, your face closer to my hand.

“Up the forearm now.”

Your lips are moving in a slow trail of kisses along the inner surface of my forearm, all the way to the crook of the elbow.

“Lick back down...mmmm.... beautiful. Good boy. That's enough. Get on with the rope now.”

You wrap my wrist with a triple loop of the rope, check that it's not too tight and then fasten it to one of the balusters of the headboard. I pull at the tie, it seems secure but comfortable.

“The other hand now, J,” I hope my voice isn't shaking too much.

I'm getting frightened now, my mind fighting my body's impression that there is something seriously wrong going on. Your hands are tied... your fucking hands are tied and you are just letting it happen... is ringing in my head and reverberating through my body. I am scared. Not turned-on-and-excited-scared, but simply scared, so scared that my voice is on the verge of breaking.

I want to tell you to stop. Now. I want to tell you to untie me. I want to test you - now, now, now, NOW! - to make sure that you would do what you're told when you're told. I want to test it, but I know it's too soon. Too early. I'd blow it if I did it now, so I dampen down my fear, settle myself into the trust, into the faith that I have in you, and in my own ownership  and control.

You keep checking that I am comfortable, talking in a lower, soothing voice and I am getting more relaxed, but it isn't really what I want either, I don't want to slip into a dizzy submissive fog.

I need to assert my power, the power which - if it is to be real, if it means anything at all - is still there – should be still there - even now when my hands are tied. The power that should be more apparent and paradoxically, more visible now that I am physically restrained.

“Push a pillow under my butt. And one under my head.”

You obey, checking again that I am happy with my arrangement, murmuring something low that I can't quite catch. My knees are a little wide, my elevated hips making me feel exposed. I don't really feel comfortable like that – not without my hands free – but I am also turned on, and getting more turned on, with every command you obey, with every minute that passes and the situation doesn't crash around us. I let the underlying arousal wash over me now, swipe away some of the fear and tension, paradoxically clear my mind and focus it.  

“Kneel on the bed to my right. Hands on your knees. Eyes down. Roughly at my chest level.”

I look at you from my position, smiling, a little laugh escaping. You're  above me, and I can't reach out to you, grab you, direct you; not even touch you. For that matter, I can't even reach and touch myself, and god how I want to now, suddenly, when I see your smooth skin and erect cock curving up between your thighs as you kneel next to me.

My hands are gone.

But I have you. Your mouth. Your hands. Your cock.

No, not  yours. Mine.

“Stroke my cock, for me, J. Count twelve strokes and keep them slow.”

You obey, counting as you move your hand, your eyes locking with mine. I am smiling, even though my breathing is faster and yet deeper than normal, even though the tops of my thighs are getting covered with a slick dampness of desire and my lower back is arching just a bit.

“Twelve...” comes out with a gasp, my cock still in your grip.

“Come closer. Here. I want to taste you.”

You get near me, lean over a little, the tip of the cock almost but not quite touching my lips, “Closer!”

You obey, and at a slight turn of my head I can now lick my cock, shiny with the first drops of precum, hot and twitching when I run the tip of my stiff tongue along the bottom side, pressing harder on the frenulum, making little circles in that sensitive spot.

“That's perfect. Don't move now, just hold it there.”

Your breathing is shallow and I can see the muscles in your groin and lower belly flexing, as if you were trying to stop yourself from pushing in. I take the cockhead between my lips and tighten, sucking, my tongue swirling around the top. You moan, your right hand moving towards my head, then stopping half way, landing on the headboard. I turn my head, move my mouth away.

“You're doing well, J. Lick my breasts now. Through the lace. Use your hand on the other one. Gently. No teeth.”

You take a deep breath and start doing just that, your breath hot on my skin through the sheer fabric, your lips and tongue ravenous yet soft on my right nipple, your fingers stroking and tweaking the other one. I want to put my hand on your head, and then I realise that I don't need to, that you are exactly where I want you and doing exactly what I want you to do, and I close my eyes and let out a deep sigh that turns into a moan, making small, guttural noises of encouragement, praise and pleasure as you go.

You're lying next to me, the bound cock brushing against my thigh, my knee bending and pushing between your legs now, rubbing and pressing on that hot, throbbing flesh, the dampness of the precum mixed with saliva drying on my stocking.

“Feel my cunt now, J.”

Your right hand moves down between my legs, bunching the skirt higher, your fingers sliding into my swollen, wet slit, making me gasp and rise my hips towards your touch, move my legs to close them tightly on your hand, grasp it there, then release; your mouth still on my breast.

“Want to taste me?”

“God yes... Please, M...”

“Stand up by the bed and lick your fingers... I want to see you... That's it. That's a good boy. Like that? Do I taste good? Want some more? Want to touch yourself?”

“Fuck.... yes, yes, M... please...”

I let you reach down again and use my juices as lube, watching you stroke my cock, your knees slightly bent, your hips pushing forward as you fuck your hand, picking up the pace as if you were racing towards orgasm.

“STOP. Hands off.”

You groan but obey, again. Perfect.  

“Do you know what I want to do now?”

“I want to slap my cock. And balls. Make you wince. But I can't do it so you will have to do it for me. Hard, boy. Like a god little painslut you are. Ten good slaps.”

It's an odd but exhilarating feeling, to be lying there, spread flat, looking at you from below, unable to enforce my commands with any physical means, and to have you follow them, still. The first slap is loud, making my cock bounce sideways, the second makes you groan and pause.

“I said ten, J. And don't miss the balls.”

You cry out on the last one, your knees bucking under you, my cock twitching above the red-flushed balls bulging above the tie.

“Good boy. Come back here.” I spread my legs wider, bend my knees, place my feet flat on the bed. “Between my thighs. Where you belong.”

You are kneeling there now, your eyes moving from my face to my cunt, slick, hot and open, inches away from my throbbing cock, my clit so hard and erect that it must be showing above my labia.

“Lick me. Each side, then up towards my clit. Flat, slow and soft. No teeth. Make your slut mouth useful.”

You dive in, lapping and licking, your hands under my butt, your whole face buried in my dripping sex, my legs tightening around your head, wrapped around you, now crossed behind your back, pulling you in.

I am very glad I didn't go as far as making you tie my ankles and that thought makes me laugh out loud even through the thickening, sticky cloud of arousal building up as you keep eating me out; and oh my god how perfect your mouth is, everywhere I want it, everywhere I need it, adjusting and responding not just to my words, but my movements, twitches, moans and changing breath patterns; your tongue buried deep inside me, then flicking and circling around my throbbing clit, your lips soft and open, then puckered, kissing and sucking, then licking and tongue fucking me again.

For a moment I lose my awareness of you, all that's left is the glowing, ecstatic ''now'' of waves building inside me, spreading over my whole body from that wet, hot pool of desire you've disappeared in. I think I come then, but I am not sure if I really do because it's not even possible to draw a clear line between the plateau of pleasure I am on and any peaks that might spike up from it, and it doesn't really matter then and there.

You're panting and gasping, I am not sure if it's from lack of air, or arousal, or combination of the two, or the effort it takes to keep going with my cunt rubbed all over your face, my legs tight around your neck. I loosen up and release him from the grip, moving my feet down your back, pushing you up.  

“Get your face up here.”

It's slick with my juices and sweat dampening your hair, your lips swollen, your eyes wide, pupils dilated, mouth half-open, somewhere between a smile and a moan; and I can't help but laugh again, close to overwhelmed by a mixture of joy and lust, high on the moment, on the perfection that we are achieving here, on how well it's working out, on the fact that it is actually working out at all, and on how good it feels.

You kiss me, lightly, my tongue darts out to taste myself on your skin, the musk and brine coating it, making me moan and grasp your lower lip in my teeth, bite harder until you wince and moan, my cock stiff against my body, my legs wrapped around your hips now, my cunt rubbing on your pulsing hardness.

“Kiss my neck, then lick down to my shoulder,” your mouth moves where directed, my moan tracing the wet trail of your tongue, my legs tighter around your waist.

“Bite me.”

You stops, suddenly completely still.

“BITE ME,” I repeat, firm and loud, almost shouting into your ear.

Your teeth close on my skin, gently but noticeably.


I am aroused enough to find it pleasurable, at the level when I can enjoy the intensity of the caress that borders on pain. But this is just a side effect. This moment is not about this kind of pleasure.

“Harder. Hard enough so it hurts. Harder, I fucking said!”

You stop and start talking in a low, 'normal' voice, dubious, questioning, “M... please... you don't really like it, do you? I don't want to hurt you...”

I am getting annoyed, annoyed enough so I want to slap you, “I said bite me hard, J. Do. What. I. Say. Bitch,” I hiss, even as I feel ridiculous doing that, adopting this language while flat on my back under you, with my hands restrained.

But it works. You obey, your teeth on my shoulder again, tightening until I wince, until I want to cry out. Until I do.

“FUCKING HARDER, SLUT.... Arrrrgh....”

It hurts. It hurts like fuck, and no, I don't like being hurt and yet the satisfaction of making you do it overrides the pain, floods my mind with a wave of arousal that has nothing to do with what you are actually doing but everything to do with making you do it, and maybe even with making myself put up with it, taking the flow of power to another place, a different level yet again.


It's hard to say it without shrieking, what with your teeth digging into my skin and close to breaking it, maybe even breaking it now; but somehow I manage and you obey in an instant, your head laying still in the crook of my shoulder.

“Look at me, J,” I'm wincing as I say it but the grimace turns into a wide smile of satisfaction when you look at me, supporting yourself on your hands above me, your dark eyes a mixture of concern and something that borders on elation.

“I'm sorry, M,” you mumble quietly and it's all so bizarre that I am laughing again, through the dull pain of the swelling bruise on my shoulder.

I tighten my legs around you and push my hips up, my cock getting yet harder again when I say “Good boy.”

“Now move down there and kneel... let me see you... yess... that's it. Touch my cock for me. Hold it and stroke, slowly. Slowly I said.... get closer... now rub it around my cunt... mmmm....that's it. Feels good?”

The warm, smooth cockhead is sliding along my slit. Every time you pass my clit, I rise my hips towards it, the mounting arousal beautiful, pulsing, almost unbearable.

“Fuck yes M... you feel soooo good.... ohhhh....”

“Slide it in. I want to feel you inside me. Deep. Then stay still.”

You do as told, hard and hot, parting my slippery folds, reaching in, making me gasp with the sudden pleasure, the walls of my cunt contracting on the throbbing flesh.

“Ohhh... M... I'm so close... fuck...”

“Don't move. I know you want to but you will not. And don't come.”

Panting, your whole body shivering and tense with the effort of obeying my order, and I am not sure if the simple sensation of my cunt squeezing and relaxing over the cock that fills it or if it's watching you struggling with your own desire like that, but I am now myself getting lost in all that, my whole body, inside and out, on fire.

I untangle my legs and hook them on your shoulders now, which is not a mean feat considering that I am far from willowy or nimbly athletic, but I want you deeper now. All the way in, and stock still inside me, as long as you can manage. As long as I can make you.

You slide out with a groan, help me adjust and plunge deep back in. It feels like all the mounting desire of your body to thrust, to fuck me, to fuck something, focuses in this one movement, my cock even bigger and harder than it was before, filling me up, touching all the exquisitely pleasurable spots inside.

“Stay still,” I repeat.

You're breathing fast through clenched teeth, your hands under my butt, holding me close, your eyes fixed on my mouth as if it offered some kind of lifeline, then moving to my eyes, locking my dilated gaze, your teeth visibly clenched over your lower lip.

“Fuck... fuck.... ooooh god, M.... I...,” gasping now, breathlessly.

“Stay still,” I repeat, again, my cunt clenching over my pulsing cock, my feet turned somewhat awkwardly to join behind your neck.

A vague thought of 'how long are you going to last like that?' floats through my mind and I am smiling at that, a wide smile, a snarly smile, with an odd quick bite of my own lower lip, spilling into a low laugh that rises from somewhere deep inside my chest, and from lower down between my legs. I push my hips up, trying to get you even deeper, your balls hot and heavy on my ass, the curve of my cock perfect inside.

“You want to fuck me, boy, don't you? It would feel good to thrust and move, in and out, faster and faster, wouldn't it?”

“Yes... god yes... please M... I can't... I can't do it much longer... ohhhhhh....,” you moan again, your eyes fluttering, my cock throbbing, your body shaking.


I unhook my legs and let them drop on the bed, and you slide out, a look of something approaching a relief on your face.

“Move back. Sit on your heels. Knees wide.”

My feet land in your lap, the moisture covering you rubbing dry on the nylon of the stockings, one foot pressing the tip of my cock up towards your belly, the other pushing your balls back. You're panting again, short, broken breaths, head thrown back, your hands on your knees, fingers digging in as if for a distraction.

“Yes, yes, yes, please, M, yesss...”

I rub my right foot along the bottom surface of my cock, harder and faster as I go, all the way from the tightly stretched, precum covered skin on top down to the base and back again, pushing it further towards your flexing belly.

“Now. For me, boy,” comes out of my mouth as a low, rapid whisper and the orgasm spills out of you before I even finish saying it, a warm explosion of thick stickiness all over my toes, a squirt after a squirt, the muscles of your legs and belly twitching as I keep rubbing through the spasms and beyond them, until you start squirming when it becomes too much after your orgasm subsides.

“Untie your junk now and clean me up.”

You pull the bindings off my cock and slide down the end of the bed, your mouth on my cum-covered feet, licking it off, sucking bits of fabric, your tongue busy and obedient even now after you came.

I'm getting impatient. “Enough of this. Bedside table drawer. Now.”

There is a craft knife there and you know what to do, my hands pulling at the restraints to stretch the rope and make it easy to cut. The moment you put the blade back I am sitting up, grabbing the D-ring on your collar again, pulling you closer to me.

“You did well, boy. I loved it,” I kiss your neck just below your left ear, then straighten up. “Now, just a reminder...” my right arm swings casually, a light slap, more a symbolic reassertion than something intended to cause any pain.

But the contact of my fingers and palm with your face is electrifying, a jolt that makes me gasp, swear, breath sharply in through my nose, exhale between clenched, bared teeth, I want to – I NEED to - do it again, harder now, almost but now quite losing control, and one more time, ooooh fuck, my hand slides from your hot cheek up to your ear, grabs it, my fingers in your hair, clawing, both hands now, pushing you down, closer, between my legs, faster, oh my fucking god how I want it, and don't care if you are in your male post-orgasmic slump, I need your lips and tongue there, now, now, now.

Now. Mine.


Read the full tale:

Friday, 15 June 2018

Girlie things

While I am at it, I might as well share some older pornography I wrote with you. This one is getting on for being 10 years old now, and I am somewhat ambivalent about the whole feminisation thing, but I do love me some gender bending and I made it work for me at that time. 

Here is a sample that you won't get free from Amazon:

He gets up from the chair, slowly, a dazed look on his face, his eyes scanning the room in search of a mirror, but I have purposefully covered the only one.

"Later," I say and walk towards him, pull the tie of his dressing gown and let it drop   open; pushing it off his shoulders so he's standing there completely naked.

His body is hairless, waxed and lotioned; and the way he stands, slightly turned aside, makes his cock and balls disappear in the shadow of his sleek thigh. I can't resist running my hands along his arms, then gently turning him round and doing the same on his back, from the shoulder blades skimmed by the tumbling hair, along the spine and down to the curves of his smooth ass.

He stands there motionlessly, like a mannequin or a wax model, letting me turn him round, paw and prod, allowing my hands to roam on his skin, strangely cool, as if I was touching a statue, only a slight, occasional shiver an indication that there is a living human being inside the body.

I love that. I want him to stay like that, I want to pull the wig off his head, lie him on the floor and slap his face until rivulets of tears smear the makeup all over. I want to straddle him and have him beg me to hurt him, not with my words and taunts but with my nails and fingers, and I even think that if I did that, he'd probably let me. But I don't yet have the courage to destroy this story, to divert from the script by more than I've already done. 

I shrug again. I've made my girl, now I must dress her.

I make the few steps to the bed, picking up pieces of clothing. Bikini-cut silk panties first; he moves at last, perches on the edge of the bed and pulls them on, almost all the way up.

"Lie back, sweetie," I instruct and as he does, I lean down and gently push his balls inside the body, then tuck his cock, which starts to harden a little under my hands, but remains pliable, between his legs, pulling the panties up to finish the task. They sit tight on his ass and keep everything in place.

As he sits up, I pass him a pair of hold ups, topped with a wide band of black lace but otherwise nude, sheer, with a black seam. The silicone sticks well to his smooth skin and they stay up with no problems.

The dress took a while to select, but I'm happy with my choice, a simple straight-cut thing of heavy, flamboyantly patterned silk with a Chinese collar and a long side slit that goes almost up to the thigh, exposing the edge of the stocking top. The shoes are medium heeled, wide-strappy suede, not stilettos, but go well with the dress.

He walks around the room experimentally, teetering a just little but mostly surprisingly steady, the heels and the confines of the dress adding a sway to the movement, the silk rustling slightly with each step.

He seems somehow more alive now, more real than even a few minutes before, as if the makeup and clothes - just meaningless trinkets really, less than skin deep all - conferred some primal transformational power.

What I see in front of me goes beyond fetishism of a man in knickers and stockings. Like a shaman that paints the body and puts on an animal mask somehow becomes the animal, so donning the clich├ęd female adornments seems to have created a path for some forlorn, abandoned part of his person to emerge.

He turns around, almost a pirouette, a hand on the hip, looks at me sideways, smiles, pouts a little. The effect is undeniably feminine, sexy, sultry.

Pretty. Fucking pretty. PRETTY. I spit this word out at him. No. I don’t. I imagine doing it, I do it in my head, then smile.

"Perfect. Now this and we are good to go," I say, getting the last item out if the wardrobe, a satin lined swing coat; a silky, almost black mink.

He gasps when I shake it and hold in my hands for him, then walks slowly towards me, turns round and slides his arms into it, wraps it around his body, crosses his arms hugging himself into the luxurious softness.

I walk towards the large standing mirror, until now covered up, pull the sheet off.

''Meet Nell."


You can read the whole thing (there is sex in there, I hasten to add) for less than price of coffee here:


Wednesday, 13 June 2018

Leaving a mark

If this is not your first visit to this blog, there is a chance that you read some of my smut before. Now that the old posts are gone (perhaps temporarily, perhaps forever, I have not decided yet), you can still get a fix by buying my smut (and if you have a Kindle Unlimited account, you can borrow them for free) -- here are my two longer F/m tales:


Wednesday, 6 June 2018

Not a place

This is not a place not to be real. 
And I was never real. 
It's time to acknowledge that and own my shit. 

As to being a ''sex blogger'', never mind a ''member of a sex blogger community'' (lol? lol). Nope. To quote myself from a different place and an ever-now time, those are not my people either. 

Good luck & take care, whoever you are. 

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.