Wednesday, 30 November 2016

The now of now (the kiss)

A content note: this fragment has neither specific kinks nor overt female dominance/male submission dynamic in it (or does it? - comments welcome ;) but just happens to be the bit of writing I'm tweaking now. For the basorexic among you. 

I'm walking off the ferry. Strangely untired albeit dirty and sweaty in my entirely inappropriate clothes though it might be just nervous energy. I hope you've got the text. I'm looking around as I approach the terminal building. It's almost dead, though lit up. But everything pretty much closed. It's not normal time for boats to arrive.  I look around. Not quite sure what I'm looking for until I see you, just outside the terminal, a tall figure in a green shirt.
My mouth stretches in a big smile, a mixture of terror, joy and disbelief overriding the tiredness and daze of the whole journey. My heart is pounding, I can't quite believe it's happening. I get closer, and still can't believe it. Fucking hell. You are here, and it seems less believable than anything that has occurred so far. Less believable than a ferry that's travelled from dream-displaced Dover to the west coast of Greece, crewed by apparitions of people from my past.
You get closer, I hear a low whisper of a curse, then a louder greeting, “Holy shit. Hi, M.”

“Hello.” This seems completely inadequate. “J?”
You are breathing fast, staring at me with a nervous smirk, giggling a little, seeming a bit giddy. You make a move as if you wanted to grab me but were stopping yourself from doing so.

I'm still smiling. But it’s a smaller smile. I wonder if you know what I want to do now. My smile is gone, lips a little ajar.  You can probably hear my breathing. I'm close enough to see your eyes even in the unreliable light here. You blink a few times. Then stop blinking, completely and we are in a full eye contact. Your smile vanishes.  

“May I?”

I don't reply at first, but touch your face. That gesture, that thing I have done so many times in so many different stories. Gently. Just fingers on your left cheek. Tracing the cheekbone and the jaw. Fingertips only. Slowly. Then my full palm on your cheek, thumb running along your lips. I answer.


You have no idea how many times I thought of that. How many times I imagined it. The meeting. The first touch. Or maybe you do, maybe you have been doing the same, maybe you are as shocked by the now of now as I am because you don’t take your eyes off me and they are begging. You sigh, lean forward, trembling, and let your lips gently land on mine.

I anchor your shivering. “Hi.”

I'm shaking too. I might die here. Or burst out laughing. Or just grab you and pull you closer. “That would be allright,” you murmur and I am not sure if you are really saying it, thinking it to me or I’m imagining it. I suspect it doesn’t matter. I pull your head down to the crook of my neck, my fingers in your hair, my breath somewhere in the region of your ear. You moan, an erection growing against my hip.

"You're here, boy." Your fingers slide on my wrists, “Yea. Yes I am, M.” I kiss your neck. Just under your earlobe and down, my right hand in contact with yours, the left one still on the back of your head. “I swear I might just die,” you whisper, your right hand slips around my waist.

I'm almost panting, my hands on your butt, pulling you closer.  I kiss you on the lips, quickly. First in the middle, withdrawing before they part, then in the corner. Left side. You gasp briefly. The touch of my lips is light but I am not moving away. Then a lick, just a tip of my tongue. You stay completely still, almost unnaturally, as if you were struggling against yourself not to kiss me back. “Still, boy.” You moan a little, “Yours, M. Yours. I'm yours.”

I pull your head away, want to see your face, your eyes. Then kiss you fully. Open lips, tongue sliding between yours (horrible breath probably unless we engage magic powers here and why the fuck not). Your eyes shut automatically.  Taking in my kiss. My tongue under your upper lip. Then teeth grazing the lower one.  Voracious yet slow. Your tongue meets mine, swirling slowly, patiently somehow.



My eyes back open, your hand moves up. I let you touch my hair and the back of my neck briefly. Then move your hand back round my shoulder. Eyes closed, I feel you with my mouth. Gentle bites now and then. Holding your lip between my teeth, touching it with my tongue.



Everything else is gone. I'm holding your head between my hands now and just tasting you, kissing you, licking you slowly. “It's all gone,” I hear, or sense in my mind again, the same strange voice I can’t identify even as I am sure it’s coming from you.

I want to bite your lip harder but I'm stopping myself. I want you so much that it almost doesn't matter what else is going to happen. It's all good. It's herenow. It's happening.

“This is pretty surreal.”

“Yes,” your lip between my teeth.

“Just. You. Me. Here, together,”  my hands on your face.

In the now of now.

Tuesday, 29 November 2016

That time of night

Revisiting my older themes. This is an old  FMM story, and it has bit of not-quite-self-aware female dominance flavour, but it was intended as neither a cuckold or a forced-bi fantasy. Instead, it worked my own levers. 

We were both pissed and tired, sitting bleary eyed and fuzzy minded by the bar, in a bar, not to far from the seafront and the pier. It was quite obviously but not dramatically a gay place, but with many mixed groups as well as couples, none of them very scene. I am not sure how we ended up there, it might have been my latent fag-haggery talking, and Andy, I think, simply didn't notice at first or was past the point, and past the pint, of caring. Incidentally, I also wasn't sure - I still am not - how I ended up with that straightest-ever and ever-slightly homophobic boyfriend, but let's just say it wasn't one of my priorities when we met and it kinda rolled on from then.

We had been drinking in this place for a while now, and Andy was sliding from the happy-drunk into the rambling-drunk phase now. The lesbian couple we had been having a Serious Conversation had gone and he turned away from me on his barstool, animatedly talking to some young and obviously dumb guy in a tight polo (yes, I know, I know), almost grabbing him by the collar, trying to persuade him that surely he must, deep down in his soul, fancy women. The guy shrugged and tried to disengage Andy's hands, and I saw the barman eyeing them cautiously and  glancing at the bouncer by the door. He was a nice cheerful guy, young and pretty if a little too cherubic to be my type - lucky, really, as he was obviously also very cheerfully gay - and happy to serve us drinks before, but now I thought we, or at least Andy, might be getting close to being chucked out.

I pulled on his free hand, made him turn away from the guy he was hassling, gave him a cigarette and suggested we leave. He declined, as I knew he would - it was that time of the night - and I shrugged and got myself another vodka and Red Bull, as a concession to the quickly approaching 2 a.m.

Andy managed to obtain another pint and occupied himself with it quietly for a minute. Then he leaned across my lap to the guy standing next to me, nursing what appeared to be a Martini - and yes, I know a Martini at 2a.m., never mind nursing one, is a concept difficult to wrap one's mind around but he really was - who turned up there at some point in the previous five minutes.

“Are you gay too, then?” Andy slurred.

The answer took some time coming and I turned sideways to have a better look. A slim bloke, clean shaven, maybe in his mid thirties, maybe older, maybe younger; shortish, but a little taller than me, in flats anyway; short light brown hair with a slight curl, green eyes, a hint of a smile in the corners of his mouth. Stupid shoes, semi-decent jeans just this side of Jeremy Clarkson, a nondescript shirt, stupidly expensive watch.

“No, I am not,” he answered eventually. American accent, but of the nice type that glides softly and sweetly into your ears instead of grating and panting on every vowel and consonant like most of them do.

Andy seemed surprised and interested, with that kind of irrational interest drunks can develop.

“You fancy women, mate? That's great! I thought it was all fucking poofters in this place,” he announced to the world.

I cringed inwardly, despite my drunkenness, wondering not for the first time what levels of political incorrectness constituted reasonable grounds for splitting up. The guy shrugged, possibly put out by this line of questioning.

“Yea, of course I fancy women,” he said eventually. I didn't think it was that obvious where we were, but didn't say a thing.

“Like my woman, then? Fancy her?” Andy continued his drilling.

The guy looked put out, I thought he was significantly more sober than Andy, or even me, and possibly not yet at the stage when you can entertain such questions from strangers in bars. Or maybe just wary of what consequences giving either a yes or no answer could have.

“Oh c'mon, do you fancy her? Would you give her one? I won't get offended!” declared my boyfriend, placing his hand on my thigh in a proprietary manner and giving it a squeeze.

The guy looked at me as if he was actually seriously considering an honest answer to the question, his eyes fixing on my face, my boobs, my ass and my legs in a quick sequence. I couldn't help laughing. The guy flushed red and for some reason, that cut my laugh short. Instead I looked at him for a second longer than I normally would and smiled. He licked his lips, a quick dart of a tongue, looked at me, then at Andy, then at me again.

“I guess... I guess I would, if she wasn't unavailable,” the American declared.

“I'm a jammy bastard, I know,” Andy said, “And you are a good man, mate, a good man,” he leaned over again, presumably to pat the guys shoulders in his infuriatingly patronizing manner.

“But darling, I think he would also happily suck your cock,”' I said, not too loudly, into Andy's ear, making sure the other guy could hear that too. I am not sure what gave me the idea, and even less sure why I actually expressed it. Andy stopped mid-move on one side of me, the guy on the other seemed frozen as well.

“Wouldn't you?” I turned to him, asking innocently.

A scarlet blush covering his face, visible even in the low light of the bar, was enough of an answer. I glanced down, and there was a slight hint of a bulge in his jeans. Whatever it was in me that provoked my previous statement must have been onto something.

“I...I'm not... I never...” he stammered into his pint.

This was also, in its way, an answer; neither joking it away, straightforwardly denying or being offended. I felt a twinge between my legs, a wave of tension knotting somewhere in the lower belly and spreading down to my pussy and upper thighs, a hot spasm inside my cunt. An image of the two of them together, my man and a bar-met stranger, Andy's big dick sliding inside the other guy's mouth, his pretty whore's lips in a tight circle over the shaft.

My mind reeled, and it took a bit of effort to rein it back. Andy looked a little shell-shocked, and wasn't saying anything. I put my right hand on his, still on my knee, but leaned towards the other guy, steadying myself on his shoulder and whispering my repeated question, by now a largely rhetorical one, into his ear, quietly, so only he could hear.

“But you would, wouldn't you?”

He didn't say anything. I straightened myself and slid off the barstool.

“C'mon. I'm fucking bored here. Let's go.”

Andy followed without making much fuss, which surprised me no end. Maybe he had ideas brewing in his addled brain too, just as I did. I looked pointedly at the American guy.

“And you?”

I didn't REALLY think he would come with us. But he did. We walked out into the cold outside. I wasn't sure where to go now, I didn't fancy a club full of eighteen and twenty year olds e-d up to the
gills, and I didn't really want to continue drinking anyway.

My head was spinning enough as it was, and I wanted sex. I wanted a cock in my cunt, getting progressively wetter and hotter, I wanted hands on my breasts; my nipples were hard and tingly now. I was, basically, horny as fuck and I felt quite serious, in a drunken way, about trying to wangle a threesome, even if without any boy-on-boy action, out of this situation.

It had been years since the last time anything like that happened with me and Andy, though that was with another girl. It had been even longer since the last time I had fun with two men playing together as well as with me. I wasn't even sure if Andy knew I had ever done anything like that. I had told him, but he had always had that amazing talent for forgetting anything that wasn't quite to his liking.

“You staying where?”

The guy pointed vaguely to the large monolith of the Sheraton on the other side of the main square.

“Wanna come... over?” he asked, hesitantly.

Bingo. I didn't even had to make any suggestions. I smiled at him encouragingly and we all walked across the square and into the warm, well lit lobby. Andy looked a bit unsure.

“I'm sure there is a mini-bar in his room,” I said encouragingly.

The American confirmed, and as we waited for the elevator, I gave Andy a kiss, sucking in his tongue, sliding mine deep into his mouth, ravenous and horny. He ground his hips into me, his erection appearing noticeable, his hands eager on my hips, cupping my ass, pulling me in.

We didn't do anything on the way up, it was only a short ride anyway, and by the time we got to his room I started to have a sort of wave of second thoughts about all this. Had I been sober, I would have probably bailed out now, but as it was, it was more of a in for a penny, in for a pound scenario.

In the room, Andy leaned against the desk, while the American guy busied himself extracting booze from the mini bar. I didn't want a drink, though, I wanted cock and thus dropped to the floor by Andy's feet and reached to his belt. He didn't protest when I undid it and unzipped his pants and pulled out his dick.

It wasn't fully erect yet, but even not quite hard, it was a lovely thing to behold, well above average in girth, at least as far as my sample of cocks had gone, and I really love a thick cock, length isn't really
that important, but I do like something to stretch my cunt. It was quite possible I had stayed with him because of his cock, actually.

It was now in my hand, close to my lips, warm and alive, with the gorgeous shiny head covered with that lovely, tightly stretched skin that feels so fantastic on your lips and under your tongue. Or under mine, anyway.

I licked all around and used my tongue to play with it, each lick and stroke sending jolts of excitement into my pussy. I am so fucking oral that I think there is a direct line of communication between my mouth and my cunt that more or less bypasses my brain.

I moaned as I took him into my mouth, sucking some before getting it out again to run it around my lips. I love that, like a grotesque lipstick. Or maybe I love lipstick because it reminds me of cock.

I heard a gasp, a groan and looked up and behind from my preoccupation. The other guy was standing there, the door to the mini bar open, a can of beer and a miniature of Jack Daniels in his hands, a transfixed look on his face, his teeth closing on his lower lip, the bulge in his jeans now totally obvious.

It turned me on, big way. I wasn't sure what he wanted, or wanted more; to swap places with me or with Andy. I suspected both, but it didn't matter. I was sure what I wanted and by now I was pretty sure I was going to get it.

“Come here,” I called.

He didn't react immediately, but when he did, he was very quick putting the drinks down and making the few steps over. I was wanking Andy's cock with my hand, stroking slowly, occasionally giving him a lick around the crown. His precum was flowing now and he closed his eyes, rocking his hips slightly against my touch. I held his cock out to the guy who approached us.

“Down here.”

Andy's dick was now between us, in my hand, hot and hard.

“On you go bitch. You know you want it,” I didn't know why I was saying those things, apart from the simple fact that it ramped my arousal somehow but it seemed to work for the American guy too because he moaned again, louder, then reached out with his hand, locked his fingers with mine. I let go and he started to stroke, his fingers enveloping Andy's shaft, caressing, squeezing, grabbing harder.

It looked fucking hot, especially with the look on the American's face, a mixture of  rapture and dejection, dizzy desire and some sort of inner pain; altogether I found it strangely but hugely exciting. I think it was more the look in his eyes than the action, though let's be honest here, the action was pretty juicy too. My pussy was throbbing, soaking wet, and as I watched him masturbate my boyfriend's cock I stroked my breasts and pulled my nipples with one hand and I pulled my skirt up, sticking my hand between my legs. My clit was hard and hot, and my cunt was throbbing.

“Suck him, cockslut,” I moaned and he eagerly opened his mouth, leaned towards Andy's crotch, took his cock in.

I moaned more, the image of his mouth filled with the hard cock unbelievably arousing, my cunt dripping. His fingers were dancing at the base of Andy's shaft, stroking his balls, his full lips stretched by the rigid meat, his eyes closed, his head bobbing up and down as he sucked and slurped.

Andy's hips were moving now, he pulled the guy's head in, grabbed his hair and ears to direct him. I heard gagging gasps, and then saw he adjusted his angle, opened wider, used his own hands to hold on to my boyfriend's ass. He was making much better job of deep-throating him than I ever had done and frankly I started to seriously, very seriously indeed, doubt what he said about never having sucked dick before. Or maybe he was just a natural cock-whore at heart. I could empathise, to a certain level, but with nowhere near as deep a commitment as he was showing.

Andy looked surprisingly close to orgasm now, he normally took ages to come when so drunk but obviously that little Yank whore was doing something quite right there. I loved it all right, but I didn't want him to shoot his load down that ravenous mouth, so I pushed the American away, grabbing his shoulders. He let go with a bit of a yelp but no major protest, and I pulled Andy on top of me, onto the Sheraton hotel bed, my legs spread wide open, my cunt drenched and wanting.

His cock felt great, thick and hot and filling; his movement inside me just right, hitting all the spots, stretching all the areas that needed to be stretched. I knew I was probably to drunk to come, but it didn't stop the exquisite waves of pleasure, like miniature orgasms exploding inside me, contractions in my belly and high inside my cunt, spreading down to my legs, my clit, my erect nipples, the backs of my knees, the soles of my feet, my hands, my lips, my spinning head.

I wanted him to come inside me, feel it drip down my slit, my thighs, to the crack of my ass. I grabbed his butt with more strength, pulled him in again, spread his ass cheeks apart, wrapped my legs around his hips, put one of my feet in the small of his back. I wanted him to come in me.

“Lick him for me you dirty bitch!” I yelled, remembering suddenly whose room were were fucking in, and soon I could feel  more weight on me, a head, soft hair and a breath, near my hands, then more pressure as the little cockwhore we'd picked up started licking Andy's balls, then I could feel that his tongue rimmed his ass, slid in.

Andy's thrusts got faster and deeper now and when he came, it was with a deep, growly moan, his cock at his full length in my pussy, his warm jizz spilling inside me. He stopped for a while, flopped onto me, hugged me tightly if somewhat unexpectedly, then got up, shaking the other guy off; dug out a packet of cigarettes from his trousers and walked out onto the balcony nearly closing the door behind him. 

The American was on the floor by the bed, sitting on his heels, looking utterly dazed, still completely dressed, the bulge of his obviously stupendous hard-on clearly visible.

I sat up, my skirt crumpled up around my waist and hips, my stockings still on, as were my boots, my shirt opened up to expose my breasts, the cups of my bra pulled down. My hair was all messed up, I could feel the make-up smeared and smarting in my eyes, but what I was mostly focused on was the pulsating need in my cunt. I was so wired up, so hot and horny and wanting to cum by then that I was acting completely on autopilot, driven more by my raging lust than any rational thought. I knew I was too drunk to come but I thought, as much as I was capable of thinking, that I might as well pass out trying.

I shuffled to the edge of the bed and reached out to the guy on the floor, looked into his eyes. he looked away at first but then let me catch his gaze, and even in my drunken, sexed up daze I saw something there that made me shiver, not just lust but something that went beyond it, a desperate want, a gaping hollow in which a need to be wanted and to be used tumbled; twisted around each other and seemingly inseparable.

Or maybe I was just making up things, pulling them up like slurred words from the recesses of my own blurry mind, looking for complexity where there was nothing more but simple desire.

I grabbed his shoulder, pulled him closer, between my knees, pushed his head down, his face landed on my sodden crotch. I could feel his breath and the touch of his lips and tongue when he started licking me, each touch and stroke adding to the irresistible pressure that had been building up inside me.

He ate me out like nobody ever had done before, as if he knew exactly where and how to lick, suck and nibble; how quickly and how slowly, how gentle and how rough to be. He licked out my pussy, dripping with Andy's cum; cleaned me out until I was moaning and shaking somewhere on the edge; his tongue sliding briefly into my cunt, then slowly and stiffly into my ass, his lips on my labia, then on my clit; licking up, then sucking it as if it was a miniature cock.

I held him between my thighs, my knees squeezed together, my cunt rubbing on his face, his cheeks, nose and chin; I was virtually face-fucking him just like Andy had face-fucked him before; my juice covering his face with a slick, sticky layer.

Despite all the anaesthetic effects of the booze, I realised that I was going to come, that this greedy little slut was going to give me an orgasm of earth-shattering proportions. When it started, it was somewhere high inside my belly, a series of contractions vibrating and reverberating down to my cunt, a gush of  liquid flooding out, my clit suddenly feeling huge and so hard it felt about to explode, then splintering into tiny fragments of pleasure.

It spread out, my legs opening and closing involuntarily, my whole skin hot, burning, then covered in sweat, and then I was not just moaning and panting but crying out, screaming.

Andy must have noticed what was going on, but he remained on the balcony,  and I was vaguely grateful to him.  I didn't need him there and then, I was riding this crest, thinking of nothing but the
sensations crashing through my body, the aliveness of my skin, the pulsing of the blood.

The man that gave me that pleasure was a mere instrument of it, a conduit of my desire, like a toy I might have used; I almost forgot he was there, and yet he couldn't be MORE there, welded to me, held tight between my legs, eating out my cunt, firing up those eruptions of delight.

I must have blacked out momentarily, when I came to, I was on the bed, panting, my breath only just starting to slow, my clothes soaked in sweat,  my body suddenly heavy, aftershocks of pleasure coursing through me, my whole skin smiling.

And the American was still on the floor, on his knees, his head on the edge of the bed, supported by his left arm, his right hand between his legs, his jeans still on, unzipped.

I sat up, unsteadily, slid off the bed onto the carpet, reached down to his belt. I undid it and he helped me, our fingers met and his were trembling. His cock sprang up, unbelievably hard; he moaned when I touched it; got even harder, precum dripping along the shaft, the hot flesh throbbing against my hand. I stroked it some, played with my fingers around the head, reached down to his balls, run my thumbs along the top

“Oh god... ooh... please... yesss... oooh...” he moaned, his own hands joining mine, the stroking and tweaking now fast, almost furious.

I knew, really - somehow I was sure I knew what he wanted, it followed quite obviously from the whole scene we just took part in - but I wanted him to say it. No, not just say it - I wanted him to ask - to plead, even.

It was all rather strange, I shouldn't have felt like that - I had just came, my body was still glowing with that orgasm; I was happy, grateful even, for that gift of pleasure; but somehow, sitting on the floor inches away from the stranger who just ate me out to a screaming orgasm, who'd done it better than anybody else had ever done before, who'd licked out my  boyfriend's cum from my pussy; I still wanted him to beg and grovel.

And I felt - though it's easy to project own desires onto others - but I felt, very strongly, that he wanted it, too. And I was pretty sure, as much as one can be sure of one's own mind, that it was that wanting, reflected and mirrored in my own body, that was starting to turn me on, again, in a different way to that raging hunger of minutes before; recognizably sexual but going beyond that, or perhaps through that, to some bare, basic, raw reality of need; the realisation in my mind transforming into a heady spasm of arousal and desire raising in my body again.

His cock was throbbing, and it felt like he was on the very edge of orgasm, it felt like he should have came already; I didn't understand why he had not. And yet I, or something somewhere deep in my mind, knew.

“Oh, god, oooh... please... please...”

He was panting, moaning with every stroke and touch. I looked down at him, there on the floor, his trousers and pants around his knees, his cock raging hard, his face and lips still shiny with the
slickness of my pleasure, a pleading puppy look in his eyes.

“On your knees, ass up. Hands off your cock,” I hissed and he obeyed, placed himself in position.

I realised I could do anything with him just then – with him or to him - that for that brief moment he was utterly mine, his mind a playground to explore and enjoy, his body a toy to play with and use. It was exhilarating.

I slapped his ass with my bare hand, the sound reverberating in the room. It turned me on even more, and I spanked him again, red splotches appearing on his skin. I was marking him, even if very briefly, and with every slap my own excitement was growing.

“You like that? You do like that...what a fucking slut I got here.”

I spanked him again, kept my hand on his body. He ground back with his hips, moaned.

“Oh, yes, show me how you like being hit. Harder, slut?”

“Please... yes, harder... hit me harder...”

I did just that, with my left hand this time, the sound of slaps landing on his skin loud in the room, the heat of the reddened skin electric on my palm. I reached down around his waist with my right hand. His cock was rock hard and completely covered in a dripping layer of precum, in fact there was some cum there too already. He shivered, almost convulsed when I touched him.

“Please let me come… please, I need it so bad, please, please, god, ohhh god, please….” his moans became inarticulate whimpers. My cunt was throbbing. I tightened my hold on his cock and stroked. Once. Then again, up and down. 

“Come now, bitch. Come for me,” I whispered and before I even finished the second 'Come' he shot his load over my hand, his hips bucking, his eyes closed.

I pulled him back, somewhat roughly, to semi-sitting position. His lower lip was bitten and bleeding a little, his eyes still closed, and remained so as I raised my cum filled hand and cum covered fingers to his face, smeared it on his bloodied lips, held them out for his needy, ravenous tongue to lick it up.

And he did. 

Thursday, 17 November 2016

Two keys

He's come out of the bathroom, towel wrapped round his hips, a few slight pink marks left by the suede flogger still visible on his chest and undoubtedly more on his ass.

Something has changed in the way I look at him now. Some of the urgency and some of the mystery have been done away with and I see him more clearly, even if still through the eyes clouded with overwhelming desire. Maybe for the first time I am starting to believe fully not only that he's actually here, but that's he is mine to play with as I see fit.

"We're going out for a little walk, J. Just down the coast. You'll wear these."

I toss him the two items I took out of my bag in the meantime. There is a small smile in the corners of his mouth when he catches the first one, changing into an almost 'whoa' when he realises what the second one is.

"I'm keeping this of course," I say, showing him a little key.

"And drop this fucking towel, boy. Really."

He does as told and I can see his cock now, not hard, which is pretty convenient considering, but not completely limp either. I like him naked, exposed like this, smooth and clean, though he's also somewhat different now after what happened earlier. The typical male post-orgasm recoil isn't particularly apparent but for that brittle, coiled energy that I sense can both explode into rage and collapse into morbid darkness being just a little closer to the surface, just about detectable in the way he moves, the way he looks, or doesn't look, at me.

"C'mere," I beckon him to the chair I've sat down on.

I take both items out of his hands again and put them back on the table.

"Put your hands on the back of your neck. Straighten up. Feet apart. Hips slightly forward. Between a military and a Tai'chi stance. Good boy. Stay like that."

He gets a little harder when I touch him, and his cock unfurls further when I squeeze some lube out and return to it with slippery, cold hands.

"You need to stop this. Think wholesome thoughts or we'll be here all day," I squeeze his dick at the base and this, combined with whatever he's thinking about works well enough to enable me to slip the steel rings onto his cock.

It's not really a long-term-wear chastity device but it looks much better than those full-on plastic things and will stop him from getting completely erect or ejaculating. The straps that go over and below balls and the little padlock add a bit of an edge and I love the final effect. He's getting hard now – trying to – a groan confirms what I can clearly see as his cock fills up against the bindings.

I spit on my already lubed-up fingers and briefly touch the visible parts of his shaft, slide them over his bulging balls, then pull the D-ring attached at the end and lick the parts of the cockhead accessible between the straps, my tongue fluttering between leather strips.

I'm surprised how much seeing him bound like that turns me on but now I know I'm going to have loads of fun with this today. It's just a right size to let him get almost-erect and I love the way his cock pushes against it, the way it responds to the mixed signals of my teasing and the limits placed by the cage. And of course there is more.

"Lovely. On your knees now and bend over. Head down."

I kneel to his side and run my hands along his hips, his recently-spanked and flogged ass, the skin flushed but the bruising not quite yet visible. His back, curving down to his shoulders, is untouched apart from the scratches left by the small serrated blade last night.

I have a sudden urge to make them deeper, to use something sharper, cleaner, to make him bleed there and then, and that image makes me gasp, my throat tightening, my fingers moving as if by themselves onto his ass, rubbing the inflamed skin, feeling the flush in the places where my open hand hit before. He's flinching a little, his breathing deepening, I can hear a whimper and a hissy exhalation coming through his clenched teeth, a slight shiver passing just under his skin. I swallow hard and take a deep, slow breath letting this desire flow through me, taking control of it, refocusing it on what I'm doing just now.

More lube and the small, bulbous plug goes in, smoothly. He won't be terribly comfortable but we are not going far and it's not exactly about his comfort anyway.

I suddenly become aware of the absurdity of the whole scene, the lengths we go to, and the depths we sink to in order to play with that snarling, gold eyed creature that eats and breathes lust but goes beyond lust itself, into that place where focus and oblivion merge.

And yes it's about pleasure but I still sometimes wonder what it is that makes us compelled to reach for pleasure to the place where any notions of dignity and reason become meaningless, and how we've ended up here, on the hardwood floor of an old cottage, between the sea where the fishermen drown every year and the jagged peaks, where people chasing another high – but perhaps not so different kind after all – fall to their deaths every year.

And here I am, my slippery fingers working a piece of moulded plastic into his ass, his cock straining against steel and leather, his moaning making my thighs sticky with desire and as I get up I burst out laughing, not at him and not even at myself but at the sheer delirious nonsense of all that.

"C'mon, J. Get dressed. There is a place I want to show you."

We walk, a short stroll along the road and then to the shore, through a muddy field to a pebble beach, then clamber over the rocks in a shortcut towards the small ruin rising just off the coast. The stone bridge has lost its planks but it can be crossed if you hold on to the parapet walls and take a few careful steps on the crumbling edge.

I let him go first and as he's about half way I press the button on the little remote I earlier slipped in my pocket.

He stops, clutching at the stones, with a loud "Fuuuck..." and for a moment I fear he might slip and fall. It's only a few meters down to the wet rocks below but I wouldn't want him to break anything. But he makes it safely to the other side and I follow him.

He looks at me, a mixture of anger and arousal fighting each other in his expression, melding together, "Fucking hell, I could have fallen," he says, somewhat petulantly.

"You didn't though," I shrug and walk up the path to the small courtyard at the top. It's overgrown with nettles, brambles and tufty grass, the earth bubbling up with dirt and roots and plantlife, filling the space between the crumbling walls.

I sit down against the raised bank of earth, leaning back, looking across the water to the black ridge on the other side. There is a breeze but not too cold, and the seamist has lifted now, the lines and colours clear against the blue of the sky. I close my eyes, breathe deeply in, let my body relax, stretch my legs out and slip my hand down the front of my jeans, touching the wet centre of my desire, my fingers stroking and sliding, finding my clit, hard and so sensitised that I can barely stop myself from moaning loudly, my back arching, pushing my pelvis towards my hand, wanting more.

I open my eyes and he's sitting next to me, staring with that look of intense desire, that longing that turns me on so much, the lines of his face both sharper and cleaner, his mouth in a near-grimace, his upper teeth biting on his lower lip, his chest rising and falling in a pattern of exaggerated breathing. I lick my lips, and show my teeth, partially because I feel like it, and partially for show, my eyes catching his, my right hand still between my legs, my left back on that remote, pressing the button again, holding it longer to speed it up.

I have tested the toy myself, in both orifices, though obviously I don't have the necessary anatomical equipment to check the effect of the increasing intensity of vibrations so close to a prostate. His eyes roll back and he moans, his hand moving to his groin, stopping, then moving again, clutching. I can almost feel the frustration and the pain of his cock prevented from getting hard by the straps, locked away, and although he relaxes a little as I release the switch, he's waiting for the next time, not knowing when it's coming or whether it's coming at all.

"Come closer. Undo my shirt and lick. I want to come."

He moves fast, his fingers shaking as he works the buttons open, brushing my breasts, finding my nipples poking through the sheer lace, stroking.

"Use your mouth. Through the lace."

His lips hot and instant, his tongue pliant; his teeth gentle, just occasionally grazing; delicious shivers through my body. I switch on the vibrator again and he shakes and whimpers into my breasts. My right knee, now bent, is rubbing against his crotch and I can feel the straps and rings of the cock-cage through the layers of fabric, his hips pressing against me.

I let my head fall back onto the grassy back, my eyes half-closed, my fingers moving faster as I get closer, his tongue, lips and fingers frantic on my breasts, the lace soaked with his saliva, my nipples so hard and swollen they seem close to exploding themselves, my clit throbbing in the same rhythm, my cunt clenching and I'm moaning on my edge before tumbling into orgasm, my back arching higher, my left hand clutching the back of his neck, pulling his face into my chest, my fingers grabbing a handful of his hair, my knee pushed between his legs, my fingers perfect just there, there, my pleasure spilling over into a snarl and a scream, and suddenly intensified by realisation of how frustrated his panting arousal is.

I become aware of him soon after, his face between my breasts, his mouth off my now too-sensitive nipple, his breath fast and damp on my skin, my fingers relaxing the grip. I straighten up, his head slides into my lap, my hand still on his neck, he's panting; when I turn his head sideways to look at his face, his eyes are glazed, half-closed, rolling back, his mouth ajar; his hips and legs shaking, almost convulsively.

I run the fingers of my right hand along his lips, drying now but still a little damp, he sucks with a deepening moan, voraciously, desperately and I let him do it for a while, then press the switch on the remote into the off position, tell him to get up; light a cigarette, climb up higher onto the grassy bank and sit down there again, looking at the dark ridge on the other side of the water.

He follows me, more composed now, sits next to me, wordlessly takes a cigarette I offer him, an expression of minor torment on his face.

"Tell me," I say.

"You are ruining me, M. This... this thing is," he hesitates.

I smile, "It can come off. As you know."

He nods. I take the key out of my pocket and show to him.

"Here. You can be free in a minute or two. Of this, and of the whole thing too. I'll take you back to the mainland. Hire a car or take a train from there."

This is a gamble, this last offer, one that implicitly equates ulocking him with ending this adventure, a test that opens a fissure of anxiety in my mind. I hope my hand isn't shaking too visibly.

"You don't really want it off though, do you? Surely. Can't be that bad. Not yet."

I'm trying not to smirk it but he can probably hear a hint of it in my voice.

"No, M. No. Not yet."

''And besides. You want me to ruin you, don't you?''

He inhales deeply, takes a drag on the cigarette, his other hand clutching his knee.

''Yes. Yes, M. I do."

"Good boy," I smile.

I am not sure if the relief is showing on my face, but he laughs a little too, and there is some shared, unspoken understanding that passes between us. I want to do it right, and I think he not only knows that but wants me to do it right too, even if neither of us knows the precise meaning of 'doing it right', even if it isn't possible to grasp it.

I reach over and feel him up through his jeans, along the constrained bulge of his not-quite-full-erection, lower down to his balls, leave my hand there, press harder, then grip as I feel him tensing up, his hips pushing forward, his upper back and neck away, a half-growl half-moan rising in his throat.

"Mine," I laugh, then let go, get up to go back.


This piece has been posted for Molly's Kink of the Week. For more locked-up hotness, click here:

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Wednesday, 16 November 2016

Female Supremacy Functionary

I can't - sexually - work with a Female Supremacy fantasy (FSF). It might be as simple as the kink mismatch, a particular thing that is blisteringly hot to one party leaves the other one cold or even squicked out. But the compulsive analyser that I am, I have my reasons.

FSF is the idea of women being inherently superior to men or a society organised along the lines of extreme inequality of sexes with women holding all the power. It hinges on the idea that women, by the simple fact of being women, are inherently superior to men. In most such fantasies it's not actually all women - the women in FSF are usually powerful women, beautiful women, feminine women, real women - whatever that might mean. Still, the notion of superiority of one gender/sex over the other, or one group over another, is there. It assumes that the power given to the dominant in a power exchange game or relationship derives from some another characteristic, a characteristic shared by a whole group of people and one that either is or should be expressed in social hierarchies.

FSF is a simple inversion of the standard patriarchy which assumes that men are due a dominant position in society and relationships because of their inherent superiority. FSF doesn't kink on demolishing or subverting social hierarchies but on inverting them. FFS is Gor for the femdom-wired. Personally, I fetishise personal power exchange, and - just a little bit, y'know - subversion of social hierarchies.

But there is more to this than just the hierarchy stuff. I don't want to, even in fantasy, be submitted to because I am a woman. Dominance and femaleness are not the same thing and although I do believe that, on the mythical plane, there is some kind of ''female divine" archetype that's worth both exploring, playing and working with, I don't see it as inherent to dominance.

There was a time when I thought my whole dominant streak was an expression of a more masculine side of me. This could have been a version of ultimately self-limiting internalised misogyny, could have been fuelled by fear of being submerged by the stereotype or - a charitable interpretation - a profound (and to certain extent, a true yet very arrogant) sense of being apart.

I was wrong. This was proven to me when I played with a man who (for his own reasons irrelevant to this post) liked to call me "Sir" and, occasionally, "Master". At first, I was delighted by the idea and its application. But soon, it started to grate with me. I felt that it eradicated something of me, not unlike FSF would. It felt like submission despite my gender rather than because of it: not as bad, perhaps, but still not quite right. We eventually settled on a limited use of those gender-subverting terms - enough to keep both of us happy if for different reasons, but I learned a lot about how my sex/gender and role interact for me.

I happen to be a woman. I often like being a woman, I like having a female body and I enjoy some aspects of being (wonkily, but still) socialised as a woman. I want this recognised rather than put aside in any D/s dynamic.

I want to be submitted to as a woman. Not despite of that. But definitely not because of that. 

My sex/gender is not the source of my dominance. And the assumption that it is turns me off. Not just sexually, but literally: it turns the 'me' off, eradicating it in submission to the fantasy hierarchy which only incidentally places me in the position of power. And even in fantasy, I don't want to be a mere functionary of a hierarchy, even if the hierarchy is one of Universal Female Supremacy.

If rigid power structures make your dick hard, and if you'd rather fetishise than subvert them, YKINMK.  In a Female Supremacy world I'd probably be a sub.

Tuesday, 15 November 2016

Behind the door

I touch your marks, still damp with my saliva and the residue of evaporated whisky, my fingertips briefly and gently resting on the M, then move your head away, raise my hips, undo my belt, unzip the trousers, pull them down, kick them off, your breath damp and warm on the skin of my left thigh.

"C'mere J," I murmur, sliding myself towards you, my legs wider, "Lick me," I say, somewhat redundantly in the circumstances but I like saying it and I think you like hearing it so I say it again as I spread my legs wider, pull my cunt open with my left hand and pull your head in with my right one, your face now less than an inch away from my wet pussy. "Lick me, slut."

You start with long ones on both sides, flat and slow, up and down, the tip of your tongue tracing the grove to rest in the little hollow above my clit. You circle round, then down along the slippery slit, dipping in as I raise my hips to your mouth, then back up to gently take the erect tip between your lips. I moan and pull you deeper, closing my thighs on your head, my ankles crossed, heels digging into your back, just below the marks I made earlier.

All my sensations are pooling in one place, not in the throbbing bud of my clit, not even deep inside my cunt where the hot and heavy pleasure can explode from, but further back, deeper.

I've pulled you under my skin and under the layers of flesh; to the bone, your breath feeding the dark red glow at the root of my being, your mouth at the bottom of my spine as the lava crested waves of pleasure wash over me, heave with every touch and recede with every break until an unexpected, unhurried orgasm slowly boils over in concentric circles through my belly, legs, arms and head.

I stop breathing for a second, maybe longer, then breathe deeper, your face covered in sticky wetness damp on my soft inner thigh, my feet back on the floor, my hands in your hair.

I'm done now and so tired that all I want to do is to slide into sleep but I know realistically I won't sleep well on the sofa so I drag myself up and into the hall. You follow me, naked, collared and hard as you are.

"Good night, J," I say pausing at the door of the first bedroom. You give me this look then, part hurt, part petulant, part needy, with a brief flash of anger that raises up for a fraction of a second. I wonder if I should invite you to my bed tonight, it's a double after all and I am probably tired enough and drunk enough to be able to sleep well with another body next to mine. I wonder what the correct thing to do would be, I wonder what the unprinted but nevertheless very much real Manual of Proper Dominant Behaviour would say, and I decide to do what I think it would advise.

I'm stepping away from you, pressing the door handle.

"Please, M..."

"Not yet," I say, as I should, and close the door behind me, as I should, even if something stops me to listen, some part of me that isn't as invested in the notion of Proper Dominant Behaviour, that wants to throw the manual into the fire that's still going in the living room grate, that wants to watch its pages burn and char, that wants to do what it wants to do and not what I'm supposed to. One that's both a little worried and at the same time very much hoping that you might still be there.

All I can hear is silence. You could have walked away, softly on bare feet along the hall rug, like I told you to, like an obedient, good boy that you are, that you are becoming, here and now for me.

And thus I'm standing by the door, still confused by what I should do, how will it work, will it work (but yes it is working according to the plan -- what plan actually – what the fuck is my plan -- do I even have one and even if I do does it matter that I follow it?) and what is actually going on.

All the notions and prescriptions and advice regarding the pacing and the teasing and the control and the rules of denial and withholding and the Proper Dominant Behaviour are swirling in my head. The herenow bubble is deflating, its skin crinkling unpleasantly. It's not just us here anymore but a crowd of voices that attempt to tell me what the right way to do this thing is, even if I don't quite now what this thing is, or even if it is a thing at all, voices that attempt to tell me how to be the thing I am, even if I don't know what the  thing I am is, and I am getting increasingly annoyed with the  notion of being any particular thing at all, and even more annoyed with the notion that I should indeed be wondering about what I am and, for that matter, what you are.

It only takes a few seconds, maybe half  a minute, in which am trying to work out what I should do, what I want to do, what I should want to do, and then, fuck it, I stop trying, the voices are gone, I am back to herenow, and I open the door.

You have just about turned round, two paces away from me, but now you halt mid-step on hearing me, seeing me lean against the door frame, bare-legged and bare-assed, the latter somewhat attenuated by the long, white shirt I am still wearing.

"C'mere, J," I say, smiling, with a laugh rising in my voice, the pages of the imaginary manual curling in the fire.

When you are near enough, I reach out and grab you. I pull you closer, lead you by my cock, softened but now quickly filling up in my hand again, warm and still a little sticky with drying precum; into my bedroom and onto the immaculate bed, where I lay you down on your back, my cock now fully erect, but, less to be sure, and more because I really, really want to, I lean down and give it a long lick, my left hand on your inner thigh, my right one on your balls, my flat tongue moving along the slight ridge on bottom surface, resting for a moment on the frenulum, teasing it with the tip, curving round the crown like slow swirl around an ice-cream cone, my lips closing on the hot, taut, velvety smooth skin of the cockhead.

It's dark, the only light coming from the barely-ajar door to the hall, magnifying all the sounds and tastes and touches. I hear you moan, your hips move as if to thrust so I let go of my cock and slap it lightly a couple of times, watch it bounce sideways, look up at you.

"Be still."

"I will, M."

I lick you some more, then place my ass at the same height as your hips, but not straddling you. I am too tired for that much effort, so I just reach behind and pull you onto your side and towards me. You slide in, my cunt still flushed and swollen from the recent orgasm but ready for this, wanting this; my muscles clenching on your hardness as I push against you, not quite riding you but with my body raised on my left arm enough to allow for freely grinding my ass against your pubis, my right foot hooked around your leg, as I fuck you, hard and fast, each contraction of my muscles, each movement of my hips causing little eruptions of pleasure inside me, spreading outwards to my inner thighs and clit, travelling up my belly to my chest, nipples, neck, mouth, hands and the back of my skull; the grinding swirl alternating with thrusts, my right hand clasped on your hip, fingers digging in.

I can hear your breath speeding up, panting and groaning, my cock swelling inside me, I am panting too, "I want to feel you come for me. Now," I moan, my hips rocking sideways, my cunt clenching harder, milking my cock, squeezing it through your orgasm and after it subsides.

I can feel your body relax behind me as I slip off, but I am definitely not done with you yet, so down the bed I slide, you on your back again, grab the softening cock and give it a quick lick and suck, the same kind that would drive you crazy at other times but which I know will now hurt the sensitised cockhead making you flinch and shiver and yelp out.

"Lick, J, ' I say, shoving myself up, spreading open my cunt, dripping with your cum and my juices, pulling you round, pulling your face into me, rising my hips so I can rub myself against you, your tongue obediently lapping up until I tell you to stop and pull you back up again to lean over you in the dark, to lick around your lips adding my own saliva to the whole gooey mix.

"Good boy," I say, and although you probably can't quite see me, you must be able to feel that I am smiling, and even if you don't, you will know how well you did because even if I wanted to, and I have no reason to, I can't quite stop the satisfied, joyful laugh that bubbles up through that smile and kiss in the dark.

Something has shifted, has fallen into a place that feels right, that is starting to feel right, not because this is the correct way to do these things but because this is what I want.

But there is still a small but insistent voice telling me that now I've checked you are OK, I should assert my role with all its prescribed trimmings and kick you out of my bed, even if I don't want to, even if it would make me feel worse than what I want to do. So I tell the voice to shut the fuck up and hold you, close, your breathing getting deeper, your heartbeat slowing down to normal, your head on my chest, my arms around you.

"Stay, J. Stay here tonight, OK?" I say, in a low whisper, quietly, quietly enough so I could pretend it never happened if you baulked. But you don't and we shift down the bed an under the covers together, deeper into the daze yet higher, my hands gentle on your back and shoulders.


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