Friday 23 October 2020

Dead tired

 (continued from before)

I think this is when it truly hits me, finally, the reality of what's happening, of what I am doing, here in one of the most remote places in the country with a man I know nothing about, about to pull more walls down. I am slowly letting out the animal that lives in my mind, not really thinking about the one in his, and I am scared again, not quite sure if scared of him or of myself; and that fear makes my body ripple with desire, shakes me so much that I turn away, pick up a cigarette from among the debris on the worktop, light it, grab another glass, pour him a drink but not pass it on, lean back against the counter, looking at him.

“How are you, J?”

“I'm hard, M,” he replies after a pause, his eyes down to the floor, his voice quiet, almost hesitant.

I can't help but let my pleasure and relief show in a smile, drag on a cigarette to mask that, then reply without acknowledging what he said, “Your bedroom is on the right, it's en suite. Don't get dressed after you clean up, just come back to the living room.”

By the time he's done I have had a quick shower too, changed into black jeans and a white shirt; the corset replaced by my usual sheer lace black bra, the denim of the trousers rubbing against my swollen labia to remind me of my arousal, as if I needed to be reminded at all. 

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.

I think of passing the relit spliff to you, but then just lean over to you, almost in a kiss, your lips open, I take another drag, blow the smoke into your mouth, then again, feed you the tainted air from my lungs, so fucking cliche but then we are all the cliches here, so I might as well take it to its limits as we both sink into the mild stupor for a moment; your head sliding down my chest, lolling onto my lap, face down so I can feel the hot, damp breath even through the denim of my jeans, my hands on your shoulders and the back of your neck, the solid strap of the collar new under my fingers.

You are nuzzling in, and I know what you are after, what you want now, maybe I even want it too, or would have wanted, should have wanted, will want it; the promise of your tongue on my dripping, swollen cunt, I can almost feel it now as you are trying to work your face into my lap. 

You must be able to smell me, hell, you are probably able to taste me there, and I do think of letting you lick me slowly, lick the tiredness out of me, utilise the way my skin feels now, both numb and strangely sensitised with dope and weariness. 

I wonder if you could make me come like that and suddenly this possibility seems real even though I've never orgasmed with oral alone; and even if not, I could just slowly drown in enjoying that sensation. The moment of anticipation makes my pussy contract and my hips raise involuntarily towards your face as my hand presses on the back of your head, fingers in your hair. 

But my thumb is still on the collar and my eyes are drawn left. I move my hand from your head and run it along your back, slowly, fingertips tracing the vertebrae, all the way from your neck to the small of your back, mapping the curve of the spine, forgetting everything else, entranced by the landscape of that blank space, the possibilities floating through my mind, my hands now sliding below your shoulder blades, down along the ribcage and lower, onto the softer flesh below, detailing the shape, to move inwards, rest on the muscles of your buttocks for a while. 

In that moment you are nothing but your back; the warm, living skin, tiny shivers of your muscles tensing and relaxing under my hands as they return upwards to your neck to rest there for a second or two; my fingers curving, the animal inside me growling. I am shifting left so your head is now off my lap and resting on the leather of the sofa, your body over my knees, both of my hands on your back, their paleness contrasting with your darker skin even in the dim light.

Friday 13 September 2019

One Funny Trick that will help you make online play more enjoyable for the toppy woman at the other end of the Internet

Topping remotely is much (much) (much) more likely to be enjoyable for the bottom than for the top. 

Why? Because many toppy people are *reaction junkies*. And that applies not just to impact play, sensory play, bondage, etc. It also applies to emotional/psychological topping, for example humiliation, and it includes control/obedience as a kink, as in giving orders or tasks. 

Many guys who want to play online don't seem to have an idea of what it is that a top gets out of the interaction. To start with, I also had no clear idea. I knew some instances were ''better" and some "worse" but I didn't know why. Until I met someone who did it right, who at times provided a nearly breath-by-breath report of *what was going on with him*. From basic physiology (*breaths shallow and fast*) to arousal (*this made my cock twitch*) to more general sensory response (*warm and tingling, feeling floaty*) to specific, elaborate descriptions of thoughts, feelings, mental and physical sensations in relation to specific things I did, said, requested. 

Pictures (and video) can provide some of this information, but it depends on how visual the person is, and often text or audio are much better at conveying it. 

Don't tell me what you would do to/for me, or what you want me to do to/for you, tell me what you are feeling now. 

Knowing that you complied, especially with a visual proof, is good, but is nowhere near enough. The doing itself is often not the point. The point is often what  the doing is doing to you. And this isn't necessarily obvious or clear. Even on cam. 

Compare this: 

>I'm high as fuck. I'm trying to describe this but I can't, too washed away. There's a thin rim of pain around my head. Breathing is fucked. Shaking. Stomach in knots. Heart is pounding hard, though not too fast.

With this:

>It's sooo hot.

Now, of course, the top can ask specific questions, but (which will take me to my next point really soon) they are already *doing the work in the interaction* -- they are doing the topping, and they have likely came up with the ideas. So make it easier for her by offering the feedback -- the reactions -- and/or by asking specifically what you can do to bridge the gap resulting from the nature of the medium you use to interact. 

And talking about asking question, and making it easier... 

**Think of what is in it for her.**

Don't just lie there and think of England (or making your cock and your sub mind happy). Be responsive, but also be proactive. Give her ideas without making them into demands  or requests. 

Be honest   with  your feedback about thingst that don't work without making it sound as complaints. 

Tuesday 6 August 2019

The first time I had cybersex was in 1995

Internet was instrumental to my finding my head and my feet and other body parts as a dominant and a sadist, firstly as a source of information and connection, secondly, and perhaps at least as importantly, as a playground.

There are numerous ways to do kink remotely, largely online. It is a better place for a lot of kink that it is for ''vanilla" sex. It is a better place for some kink than the real material world.

How come?

The first time I had cybersex was in 1995. It was over dial up connection, in a private chat embedded in a forum (that was at that time still called a BBS), using Netscape.

In the 25 years since then, I have had long periods in which I had not even thought of virtual sex, when it was pretty much the only sex I had, and when it was somewhere there on the back burner to the flesh and blood stuff.

But some of the initial thrill of that first, fumbly and not entirely successful time (at some point the guy started to worry that I was a dude and lost enthusiasm), is still with me.

Here I was, with a keyboard in front of me, able to actually have impact and influence -- able to create reality -- as valid a reality from the point of view of arousal and erotic satisfaction as the physical reality I lived in --  simply using my words. My mind. I didn't have to manipulate objects and give in to limitations of the physical world. Things were what we decided they were and the only condition needed to achieve joy was imagination and effective suspension of disbelief.

Later on, once broadband became a thing, sexting with photos became common. Then webcams. And instead of sharing a fantasy, I began, especially with my kink adventure, to do ''remote play" -- to use the Internet as a medium of communication about what was happening in the material world at the other end (I usually kept my side fairly guarded). This was fun, enjoyable, hot, often satisfying. I learnt a lot, I got bored with it, then went back to doing it now and then with a few people I enjoy as people and not just scene partners.

When thinking of this kind of play, I must concede with many people who say that it will rarely if ever have the intensity and impact of real life stuff. It is a replacement, a stop gap, a compromise. Sometimes wonderful, but still not quite *the real thing*. And although I appreciate the added realism of the pics, recordings, and the real time voice chat (I don't cam), my virtual heart lies still with the words. The abstract and the impossible made make-believe flesh.

If you find a suitable, creative and responsive play mate, one that can go with you into those places in which the only things that matter are imagination and effective suspension of disbelief, magic happens. Is it real? What *is* real? We are creatures of meaning, and although the swish and thwack of a hand or crop on skin, the way the marks feel under your fingers, are not possible to achieve in the fantasy space, so much is possible. So much that couldn't happen in the material world.

I dressed a boy who wanted to be a girl in silk and fur and made her truly beautiful and most desirable and the sluttiest of sluts. We swapped bodies and minds.
I drowned a boy in cold, clear water at high tide on a small sandy beach, a sad man and a naked old woman with a small gun watching. 
I made an all-knowing angel of death come on my fingers. I died, and I died, and I died again, then came back to life. 
I flew above the ocean with a fellow sea gull. 
I made a boy endlessly bleed out on an ancient altar as a sacrifice for powers that turned a good king into a beast of burden. I opened his ribcage and crawled inside, finding his bloodstone heart under his driftwood ribs, I grew green vines through his chest and bit his lips wide open, I fought his wolf self with my own leopard body, offering my neck to his claws and knowing he would not bite even in that form. I fucked a boy with a real-flesh cock of mine aboard an airship and made his never able to ejaculate regardless of how much torment I dished out to it.
We swam underwater for hours, we saw Dionysus dancing naked at the banks of Acheron, we stopped time and shrunk space and created the most wonderful drugs that humanity never discovered, and whole new worlds.

Silly? Kitchy? Pointless? Childish?

You tell me.

Wednesday 24 July 2019

As you wish

I stole this one in its entirety from the wonderful, wonderful story by 19syllables. I loved the setting, the sense of a moving place evoked so well that reading it made me think I was sweating despite sitting in cool 17 degrees with a cup of tea. And then I felt the erotic aspect, which was magnificently delivered yet not exactly aligned with my inclinations and thought (because I would, wouldn't I?): what if we gender-swapped the characters? The author graciously allowed me to do just that, so here we are. Apart from the pronouns and the tube topography, some anatomical details and a little bit of outer and inner dialogue have been meddled with. The narrative curve and the setting remain, for which I am eternally grateful to the original author. Please do go and read her story too, of course!


It's 91 degrees on the streets, but underground is much hotter, maybe 100, maybe even 105. The other passengers and I hang limply from the handrail, willing the journey forward so that we can ride the escalators out into the fresh air. But nobody is willing the journey forward more than I. I need the destination.

I’d already been locked for ten days, last three spent on her side of the pond, when she texted me;

“Come over. Now.”

Just that. No promises, no information about what was to come. She knew I was free, and she knew I was at her beck and call.

“Oh, yes please!” My neediness bled through my words as my heart-rate shot up at the very thought. The next text was more specific.

“Use your new toy. Take the tube. Be quick.”

I know already that that’s ten stops from the hotel to her place. On the Northern Line, one of the busiest, oldest, deepest underground lines in the city. It’s not built for hot days or modern London. It can be an ordeal on any day, but in the summer it’s hell.

I could refuse, of course. Claim busyness, claim feeling unwell, unused to the lack of air-conditioning that's paradoxically shocking to someone living in even higher summer temperatures. Or negotiate a permission for a taxi ride. But I love to please her, and I’m so very hungry for even a small chance of any relief.

I want to run to her like a puppy called to heel.  I want her to praise my slutty obedience and be pleased with how well I followed the instructions. Yes, I want her to be pleased, regardless of how much I enjoy it, or not. At this thought, my flesh presses harder against the metal bars, the discomfort rise and with it, my arousal.

Hers is a twisted sort of sadism. It catches me in a web spun from my own need . It makes me my own punisher, willingly stepping up to the challenges she sets me as route to the intensity I crave.

I throw on canvas shorts and as thin a shirt as possible and cringe at my own wantonness as I slip the toy in and message her that I’m leaving. She doesn’t reply, but I know she’s received my text as the low hum starts in my ass within seconds of my pressing ''send".

I walk with quiet purpose to the tube, I’m smugly pleased and ashamed both at once; it’s a tight rope balance between being her good boy and her filthy slut, vertiginous and dizzying and I can't quite see properly just now. Halfway down the escalator a feeling of being lowered into a warm water takes over me, as the air becomes thick with heat, breeze-less and stagnant. The people coming up on the facing stairs look flushed and wilted – their hair stuck to their faces and their eyes uplifted to the light at the end on the tunnel. But I descend.

It’s fairly quiet on the platform, I stand a little away from the other people as I’m nervous that they’ll hear the buzzing, the maddening, incessant buzzing, that they’ll see me for what I am; lascivious and libidinous, shameless and yet still ashamed.

The coming train pushes a chunk of hot air forward and it animates everyone on the platform who were, until that moment, static. A suited man, tie undone, looks up from his phone and takes a step towards the edge, a woman holds her billowing hair away from her face and picks up her shopping bags. I instinctively place my hand at my crotch level, never more grateful than now for the tight lattice of metal bars that confine and restrict my erection. They mustn’t see, nobody can see.

The train is busy, no room to sit, maybe that’s a good thing, no, maybe that’s a bad thing, will I hold it? I think I can hold it. Imagine the alternative. Fear, actual fear rather than embarrassed nervousness, coats my skin clammy and hot. A creep. One of those disgusting public transport pervs. No, don’t imagine the alternative. I turn so I am facing the corner of the carriage. Concentrate. Be calm, poker face, nobody will suspect you. I hold the handrail next to me and look into the thin layer of darkness between the carriage and the tunnel's wall.

I try to zone out during the journey, it seems best to try not to engage with my longing, my largely self-inflicted predicament. Not to dwell on the humming in my ass, not to focus on the insistent pulsing of pleasure deep inside me, not to think about how pleased she will be if I do this right, not to even start thinking of all the ways she might tease me, use me, please herself with my torment or my pleasure. Especially the last one. Not to go there.

I can maintain it; it’s a mind trick like willing yourself not to be ticklish, I suppress the rising need to moan, to flee, to see to the growing need inside myself now now now NOW.  It’s possible until the train jolts or new passengers alight or disembark and I’m jostled about and required to make fleeting eye contact or polite engagements like “sorry” or a smile. One person even makes the ‘you know it’s illegal to transport sheep in heat like this’ comment to me.  Each time I have to reassemble my armour and find a way to disappear back into myself a little.

I like to arrive to her calm, cool, composed, not showing the seething desire until later, much later; until I am explicitly instructed to do so, made to do so; but right now I’m wet and I smell of sweat and sex. I’m wet on my temples and I’m damp behind my knees. I’m wet under my arms and on my chest and under my hair. I’m wet in the small of my back; at King's Cross I felt a rivulet run down into the crease of my butt.

I’m wet in my boxers too, the sticky mess of precum threatening to seep through onto the outer shorts' fabric. I stand with my legs slightly crossed, but then that makes me unbalanced and now pushed into the middle of the carriage by people moving in and out I have to dangle from the ceiling too much while the train makes its rattling scream as it banks around a subterranean corner, so I uncross them. And then I cross them. And then uncross them and close my eyes. Please let this stop, the next stop be Belsize Park.

I walk carefully up the stairs, despite the heat better choice than the cramped elevator would be, and as I ascend into signal, a text arrives.

“Let me know when you get this.”

“got it now”

The intensity of the buzz in my butt increases, and I can't help it but let out a moan, a whimper that surprises even me with its intensity. It’s a sex noise or a pain noise, I don’t know quite which but its definitely not a London Underground noise.  A 30-something woman in front of me looks back with curious concern. I get hold of the handrail and rest my forehead briefly against the dirty tiles that should be cool, but are not, waving her away with an "I'm OK, just a strained muscle".

Oh Lord, I feel so close now. My fingers are white knuckled on the handrail, I am biting my inner lip hard enough to feel sticky saltiness on my tongue. I look at my feet, seemingly composed, in dark boat shoes. I don’t know if I can do this, this last bit. I’m so thirsty and I feel like I’m pulsing, splitting apart with heat and longing; teetering on the edge of my capability.

I walk out of the red arches of the station, past the hospital and towards the Heath, faster, almost jogging; I would be running if it wasn't for the heat.

The buzzer of her apartment feels like a life-saver.

She answers, “Hello?”

Fucking ‘Hello?’ Like a question, like she doesn’t know its going to be me, I lean into the intercom and just implore her with a single, breathy, begging "Please....". There is no reaction. I am not sure if I am angry or desperate enough to be nearly crying. "Please... Ma'am..."

The buzz in my ass stops just when she buzzes the door open, a relief that is borderline disappointing, but makes me even more aware of the painful straining of my caged cock. She meets me on the stairs. Barefoot, the dark red of her toenails peeping from under long linen trousers, her shirt stark white, her hair un-carefully pinned up, escaping in long strands of gold. Her hand on my cheek is dry, surprisingly cool to touch. I must look bedraggled, sweaty, red, worn out.

“Look at you” she says, her thumb running along my cracked lips. "Bit desperate, huh?"

I nod, not trusting myself to say anything. My eyes close briefly, then roll back in my head, I moan over the touch of her fingers.

Inside her apartment, she makes me stand in the middle of the room while she unbuttons my shirt, unpeels it off my back, undoes my belt and zipper, pulls the shorts and the boxers down and guides me as I step out of the bundle, naked now but for the steel cage against which the red flesh of my straining cock is pressing against; dripping wet and dirty and desperate and at least a little pathetic.

She's looking at me, smiling, but without mockery and in that moment, she has me exactly where she wants me, needing her in every way, physical and emotional, beyond begging for it, already yielding, giving myself to her in any way she would take me. In this moment, again, I am hers.

"Good boy. Beautiful. Thirsty?"

I nod, not trusting myself to even produce a coherent 'yes'.

She pours me a glass something -- champagne? Prosecco? from a bottle sitting in an ice bucket. It's cold, boozy, and feels like a water of life. A flannel dipped in the same ice bucket gives me a jolt initially, but I submit to her ministrations, as I knew I would, as she know I would. She wipes me down all over. My back and my arms, my chest and my buttocks. I can feel her fingers brushing the nape of my neck and one of my nipples and have to stifle a whimper again, standing there limply but for my confined cock; pliable in her hands as she manipulates me to access everywhere, lifting my arms and spreading my legs. The cold cloth landing on the cage, dripping icy water onto my engorged dick, makes me yelp, then moan into the quenching pleasure of it.

She takes an ice cube and puts it in her mouth and I welcome her cool tongue into me as she kisses me. The white gauze curtains billow in the breeze like the very epitome of cool and I close my eyes and give myself to her. She takes my hand and leads me to her bedroom, the hair now loose and down, spreading on her shoulders and back in a silvery wave. I look at the bits of kit laid out on the bed, excited and anticipating, and -- almost idly -- wonder if she's going to unlock the cage today. I could ask, but it's not the way we do things, and then I realise that on some fundamental level I don't really care.

"Kneel, boy," she says, "head down, ass up."

I obey, sinking into the grey electric space she can take me into like no other.

"As you wish, Ma'am."

Saturday 13 July 2019

This time of the year (5): More

Continued from here.

Once? Ten times? Not at all? It doesn't matter. We are beyond both the idea and the reality of an ''orgasm''. Or I am, anyway. Not so sure about you. Not that it matters, not right now, not for yet another long while, anyway.

I'm glowing now, not merely on the surface, but like an ember, the core warmer and more luminous than the skin, faster and hotter, almost liquid, the heat and want and pleasure a low laughter of emerging universes. 

My legs swing round your head, I sit up and pull you up to me, onto the bed, my hands all over you, checking, touching, stroking, pinching, my lips too. I feel smooth and free, unencumbered by any expectation or concern. I'm not playing a role because there is no role to play. Whatever is, is, and it's right, simply because it is everything that is, everything that can possibly be. 

I look at your face, carefully, my gaze an anchor for your dilated pupils, my mouth a roadsign. Smiling. 

"I want to do... few more things. Gotta prepare. You go to the bathroom and do your bit, and I'll see you in about 20 minutes. All clean and... ready. Off you go, boy."

There is a bit of finality in my "ready", even more in the "off you go". I lean to you, my hand on your shoulder, my mouth brushing the other one, lips opening, teeth grazing, biting. Fast and sharp. My other hand sliding between your legs, grabbing hold, squeezing, stroking, pulling a moan out of you. 

Hotel beds tend to lack handy anchor points, and I am glad that at some point I did do some planning, that I packed a few things that will make what I have in mind possible after some threading through, pulling, huffing and puffing on my side. 

I have a bit of time before you emerge from the bathroom, so I sit in the only deep armchair in the room and, catching my breath, realise how physically aroused I still am, wet, flushed, almost-throbbing, my clit erect, sensitive, making me gasp when I reach down under the straps and touch it with my fingertips. I grab the purple dildo which I placed on the coffee table for what I hoped was to be a striking effect. Effect be damned, it feels too good sliding inside my cunt to worry about staging. 

I need to sit a more upright, my feet about 16 inches apart, but the sensation of my cunt clenching and unclenching on the silicone curve is definitely worth it. I allow a low moan before composing myself. 

You come out of the bathroom, a white towel around your hips, your eyes darting from the bed to me and back. You see the stuff arranged for practicality rather than to look either menacing or promising yet still gulp, audibly. This brief gulp turns into a moan when I call you closer to me and, undignified as it is, extract the dildo from its current location. I'm laughing, unbecomingly for the high erotic charge, but I guess by now we can allow ourselves this. 

Laughing, or even joking, won't break the taut thread of desire that links us, won't make me want to hear your moan, beg and scream any less, and I don't think it will make you want to be hurt and used and restrained any less. We are beyond the ritual and beyond the protocol, and although I still love when you call me 'Ma'am', it's not any more essential than a latex professional Dominatrix uniform would be. 

'And I actually do love me some latex,' I say, ruminatively, out of the blue, which stops you in your tracks, even more as it's followed by a burst of full-on laughter. 

'No. Don't worry, it was just something off topic I was thinking about. I don't have a full gimp suit hidden in my magic carpet bag. C'mere.'

I wave the dildo, wet and sticky and smelling of my cunt, towards you. 

'Wanna taste, slutboy?'

I don't need to ask this question, really, do I? But I like it when you say it, when you confirm it and when you ask for it. I like the way your voice shakes a tiny bit, breaks a little, gest husky, when you say it.

'Yes. Yes, please. Ma'am. Please.'

I point to the rug near me and you drop to your knees, the towel falling off to reveal a fully shaven and at this moment, very hard indeed cock. It twitches when I slide the curved piece of silicone between your lips, and drops of precum appear on top when I push it deeper, making you suck. 

'I'd like to see you suck a real cock one day.'

You moan around the dildo, your eyes rolling back in your head, closing, then coming back to fix on mine. I pull the dildo out of your slut moth and slap you, lightly. Hot, damp cheek on my palm. It's obscene, depraved, magnificent, beautiful. I want more. I want all of you. 

Practicalities of access suggest a more convoluted - literally - tie, but there is something so damn compelling, so perfect, about a spreadeagle. So we'll start with that. 

Friday 2 November 2018


Femdom is this week's Kink of the Week, and although I rarely manage to co-ordinate my posts here with any of the sex-blogging memes, I couldn't possibly miss this one, could I? After all, this whole blog is woven about and around ''dominant female'' dynamics. So here is a little scene for all you kinky readers. 


I'm watching him float in that grey space filled with blue glowing haze, that place I neither can or really want to go to, but that I love imagining. The place I love feeling vicariously reflected in my own mind and body. The place I love taking him to.

And to have him like that -- slutty and desperate and trembling in staggered breaths, pleading for something that he could just have but he's given me to control as I please -- to have him like this takes me somewhere too.

Balancing on the edge between the shimmering sea of my own lust and the sharp focus of power, a shiver of excitement that takes the sexual and transforms it into something beyond and above it, a heady high that nothing else compares to.

I can't take my eyes off him.

He's going ever deeper as he gets ever closer, losing his self there, his mind almost gone, his whole body given to the building up of pleasure.

All of his pleasure to be given to me.

I am suddenly shaken by a need to touch him; no, not just touch him, and not even hurt him this time, not to make my mark, not yet; now I want to fuck him, so much that it makes me moan and swear, though what's left of my reason tells me it wouldn't be ideal in the circumstances, so I let that thought go, aware that there will be time for that. 

I moan through my own racing breath, reach between my legs to cover my fingers in the slippery wetness, lean over, grab his hair at the back -- it's short, so I grab his right ear too -- pull him back, awkwardly, to the side of the headrest. His face is now close to mine, my right hand pushing his chin up as I cup it between my thumb and fingers, slide lower to his neck. I can feel that the pressure restricts his airflow a little, my palm steady on his constricting trachea. I can feel him doing his best to breathe under my hand and it makes my whole body tingle.

He's body is tensing, not knowing what's coming, almost ready to start fighting me, torn between the impending orgasm and the animal reaction to the threat my hand on his neck implies. I move my hand up, the thumb stays under the chin, the fingers up along his jaw and towards his mouth, grabbing.

I push them all in, not too deep, not to gag him but to be inside him, somehow, and this will have to do. It feels like I am fucking his mouth with my hand and he instinctively starts sucking my fingers in rhythm with my movements.

I can feel his arm moving against my chest as he is stroking faster, his body tensing and although he can hardly talk, he manages, "So close now M... please... may  I... ooooh... please..."

I pull his head further back, my fingers digging under his tongue, my thumb pressing harder, my face moving closer to his. "Open your eyes, J. Look at me."

He does, right there on that edge, the dark brown eyes fixated on mine and yet gone completely at the same time, waves of energy washing over me, the power and desire in a hot ball, glowing, pulsing.

I nod, slightly.

“Now, slut boy. For me. Come,” I say, barely managing to keep myself from shouting.

I feel his body buck, a deep groan spills out of his mouth over my fingers. His features twist and contort into that ecstatic expression that's so alike to the expression of pain.

I can't take my eyes of his face. 

His pleasure is resonating in me, flowing from him to me, given all, becoming mine.

I reach down, meeting his cum-covered fingers and cock, scooping as much as I can, bring it back up to his mouth, rub onto his lips, and deeper. His eyes have closed but he licks and swallows obediently. I smile, then lean down to his face again and briefy kiss him, taste what's mine. 

His breath is slowing down, deeper and steadier, but little shivers are still travelling through his body. I let go of his head and pull him closer, both my arms around him, into a tight embrace; hold him, his face below my shoulder, somewhat awkwardly across the gearstick and the handbrake.

I am thinking about the way I manhandled his face earlier, remembering the tightening of his airways under my hand, the heady mixture of his fear and elation mirrored and reinforced by my own. I am scared, scared of what might happen, and scared of what I might do, and yet riding an exhilarating wave that I don't want to break.

I'm also horny as fuck, and we still have a few miles to drive.

“You OK, J?”

He mumbles a low but seemingly confident yes, so I shake myself out of this moment, push away my tiredness, let go of him completely, grab a blanket from the back seat and cover  him, "Sleep now, boy. It's not far."

He seems to drop off before I even get back to speed on the main road. I drive on as the road gets narrower, steeper and wilder, then single track; small villages thinning out to single houses; all passing by in a blur of a fast-falling night and my own tiredness.

I can't see him clearly in the dark, but I know he's sleeping next to me, and although there is a part of me that still finds it hard to believe, I am getting closer to accepting that yes, it's  actually happening, yes, he's here, now, in this car, on this road, on the way to becoming mine.

In times like this the reality, the greater scheme of things loses all importance, and all that matters is the here and now, accepted without questioning. The self, one's own self, and others' too, reverts to what it was originally for, an efficient tool for focusing and processing the here and now. The search for meaning and the attempts to understand become irrelevant. 

Things are, and that is all that matters, without a why, without a how, without what for. I reach out with my left hand, briefly touch him somewhere in the region of his knee, reassure myself again that he's really here, that I am not dreaming or imagining any of this.

I don't know him. I have no idea who he is. And yet he's here, and will be here for the next few days, and I can still taste him on my lips, and I want more, I want more of him, possibly more than I have ever wanted anything or anybody in my life.


See other entries inspired by this week's prompt:

Thursday 1 November 2018

This time of the year (4): Feel me

Continued from here.

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 butt down, making it thrust into the vice-like grip, your panting faster, in wincing pleasure.


I stop, both the stroking and the slaps. You 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 boots and stockings hooked around yours, the soles' edges rubbing up and down your calves.

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

''Feel me.''

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, 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."

You slide down, head still on the edge of the bed between my spread knees. 

"Take my boots off.''

You give me a smile, broad and dizzy, 
on your knees by the bed, now 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, pressing the buttons and pulling the levers we imagined working, for real now. 

And they work. Astonishingly. I still - still - still - still - find it amazing that they do. How, I am not sure. 

Either flesh just happened to serendipitously match with what we spent so much time imagining, or the fantasy triumphed over the reality even when confronted with it. 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, 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 and lips 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, pulling.  You groan, whether in pain or lust, I don't know. My legs are spread wide open, one foot braced against the bed, the other placed, lightly, on your upper back.

The joy, a basic kind, 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 pleasures, when you, as a person, disappear, when we, as ''we'' and the thing that connects us, the thing that burned so hot only few minutes ago, disappear. 

Even the want is gone. All that remains is my pure sensation. 

My hand moves your head away, my foot shifts from your back. My other hand moves down, pulling the silk to the side. 


''Two. Curved up.''

My voice, low, a little syrupy, a little gritty, slotted in-between the panting breaths but slow and sure. A tool, but a tool that's been honed deep under my consciousness, purposeful more in the way of cat's claws' purposefulness than a Sabatier knife's. 

"Find the right spot.''

Your fingers moving, probing, searching. Subtle changes in sensation, varying degrees of pleasure that, despite your fingers being inserted few inches deep in my cunt, remains skin-shallow until you do find the right spot indeed and the pleasure goes deeper.

A slow rush, spreading velvet from the dense point of gold at the centre of my pelvis, outwards, to my hips, the small of my back, upper thighs, breasts, down to my toes and along my arms to my fingertips. 

A deep breath, a moan. Rising. Maybe uncontrollably, certainly hard to control. 


My eyes closing, my head thrown back. 

''That's it. Rub there.''

I let the sensation spread wider, pulse out, sink into me as I sink into it and become one with the pleasure. 

-- tbc, probably. 

But it could end here. Not a bad place, huh?

Friday 26 October 2018

This time of the year (2): Strip for me

Previous part here.

Less obvious, less tense, less wired, less easy later.

The room is on the tenth floor and in the lift, we both look down, both a little awkward, then at each other, then away again.

''Turn round,'' I say, suddenly, something -- something different from the initial flare of lust that drove me in those first minutes -- emerging. 

''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 up to your shoulders, warm and dry, not yet seen, I can't wait. 

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, my flat palms steady on your hips. I want to pull your shirt off, see the pink 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 the 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 moving. I give you few seconds, 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.

All the anxiety, all the nervousness, all the awkward that fluttered around me before are gone. And not because I don't feel awkward or nervous. Not because I grew in confidence or relaxed into a role, into the role even. Nothing about me, nothing about the essential situation has changed, yet everything has changed. What's gone is not the nervousness but a possibility of it. There is no room for nervous awkwardness in a true now. And now the now is all that is.

Now, I keep looking, first at your cock. My looking is silent and focused, grown from desire but, as for now, has pushed desire into the background. 

Now, my looking is as shameless as your display; now, your obedience is as bold as my demand. 

I shift my gaze to your face, for the first time since I told you to strip, direct, into your eyes, a smile of mine again, your lips ajar, dry even at the distance. 

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

--- continued here.

Thursday 18 October 2018

Still: a lust letter

This is a VERY old one, slightly edited only, as it remains surprisingly on point. 

And now for tonight.

At your 7pm, which will be midnight here, or later -- but not before that time -- find yourself alone, and naked.

Have a shower. Wash thoroughly, everywhere.

Shave. The more, the better, you know that. All that excessive body hair is rather silly.

Particularly on the interesting bits, gets in the way. There is a reason why sex toys don't come with furry bits, and it's not just manufacturing difficulty.

So off it comes: your ass, your belly, your balls, the shaft of my cock, the thighs too. Yes, I did say the thighs.

What would people say? I don't care, darling. They probably don't give a monkey's, and if they do, well, you'll just have to face the music or refrain from wearing shorts for a wee while. 

So, get on with it. Razors, soap and a steady hand. I find that male razors work better, but if a pretty ladies' one called Venus or something silly like that puts you in a mood, go for it. The round, slightly bulbous handle end on that one comes handy if I want something small but noticeable in my ass when playing with myself after shaving, which always gets me rather wet. You may try that if the idea appeals. 

OK, enough.

Now feel your skin, touch and stroke yourself. Glide the soapy hands slowly down your sides, to your hips, then curve back towards the midline of your ass, then down. Close your eyes and just feel every inch of your body.

So clean, so slick. Perfect.

Think of it as a playground, a blank space to be filled with pleasure and pain, longing and desire.

Your whole skin, not just the few inches that cover the fairly insignificant body part that men seem so attached too.

That's mine now anyway, so don't focus on it. It's not important for you.

That's why I shave -- despite my feminist principles -- because nothing compares to the feeling of smooth silk satin against the bare skin of
my freshly shaven labia -- the skin so thin there, the blood pulsing so close to the surface. The droplets of water dripping down as I step out of the bath. The sensation of lips or fingers or a tongue there, feels like being touched under the skin rather than on the surface. But I'm digressing.

Dry yourself nicely. A big, fluffy, soft towel. All the folds and crevices.

You'll need some body lotion. Make sure you use it on all areas you can reach. Sadly my favourite scents don't come in lotion format, so I'll leave the choice to you, within reason. Nothing too floral or blossomy and by no means fruity. Smoke, musk, a touch of rose, some animalic notes, that kind of thing.

Pay particular attention to your hands, shoulders, ass, groin, pubis, balls. I want you smooth and altogether lovely.

I want to be able to imagine running my fingertips along your spine, all the way from the nape of your neck to the small of your back and lower, sliding between in the crack and down towards your asshole and the softer, sensitive area between that and my cock, pressing a little.

I want to be able to imagine you kneeling, bent over, your smooth back and ass exposed and vulnerable. Raising my hand, a loud smack and a pink mark on your skin. And another one, and a few more, your skin getting redder. 

Just because I can. And because it turns me on.

But I'm digressing again, wandering away to a different scenario.

Take a butt plug. I am sure you have one. Not a particularly big one, just so your slutty ass is filled and as a reminder of who owns it now. Lube it up. You can use your saliva, suck it and lick it a bit for me so it glides in easily. If it's not enough, apply some lube and in it goes.

Have a blindfold ready. Black silk scarf ideally, if you have one; but as it's all imaginary, anything will do, or even just a fantasy of one.

Now lie on the bed, on your back, legs spread out, knees slightly raised; hands away from your body. A warm room would help, but I am sure rooms in the US are pretty warm.

Put the blindfold on.

Lie still for a while. Become aware of your body, your skin, your muscles, the breath and the heartbeat.


The door opens.

Somebody comes into the room. Footsteps on the wood, then movement of air nearer you.

You can sesne me leaning over you, the slight shadow falling over the bed despite the blindfold, the warmth of a human body, the scent of my skin, some sweat, some sex, some perfume. Jasmine, rose, smoke, brine. 

I touch you.

My hands on your legs, moving slowly up to your groin. Thumbs in the groves, fingers spread out on the hips.

Do you want to move? Raise or sideways shift your hips towards my touch?

Stay still. 
Don't fucking move.

My hands moving up your sides. Tracing the curve of the soft flesh between the hipbone and the ribs.

Then along the bottom rib, towards the sternum and up again, towards the

I tweak the nipples, you can feel my breath close to you, damp on your skin. 

My mouth on your nipples. A bite on each, then gone.

No touch for a few seconds. Wait. Stay still.

Are you hard yet?

Suddenly, the flat of my tongue on my cock, just licking up, from the base to the tip.

My lips around the cockhead. Nuzzling. The tongue running in the groove between the crown and the shaft, then the tip teasing the hole on top.

My hands on the shaft, guiding it, running the head around my lips, my tongue flicking out, licking up, now my teeth grazing the bottom side. Sucking the head in, my tongue in circles around it inside my mouth.

Then I'm gone.

You can hear a couple of steps towards the bedhead. I lean down.

A touch on your lips. Fingers, running along, opening them, running underneath between the inner lip surface and the teeth. Stopping in the corners, then moving again.

Taste them; stickily, salty, earthy. You know that I must have touched myself only seconds ago. 

You may lick my hand. Suck the fingers. Lick between them. Lick the inside of my palm. Lick every square inch of my hand. Kiss the inner surface of my wrist. Taste me. 

Don't move otherwise.

Don't touch me and don't touch yourself.

My fingers running down your chest. You can feel my nails, and as they move down, they curve, and I am scratching now, first gently, then harder, digging in, grazing, almost breaking the surface of your skin in some places.

I lean down and lick the marks on your chest while my fingers move to your sides, slide under your butt, dig in, pull it up, then scratch lines across the curves of your buttocks. Is it painful enough to make you groan?

Be quiet, slut. It isn't that bad.

Are you hard now?

Let me check.

My hand on my cock again, grasping, grabbing at the base. Stroking, fast, rough strokes. Close to painful, pulling hard. Harder.

Now I stop.

Imagine me climbing on top of you, my weight across your pelvis, my drenched cunt sliding onto my cock. 

Clenching but not moving though, just there.

I lean forward a little, my fingers tweak your nipples, pull harder, pinch.

Then I straighten up.

All you can feel is the weight on your hips, my cunt opening up, enveloping you; and my inner muscles contracting.

Stay still. If you want to thrust, control that desire.

Concentrate on feeling the heat and the slick wetness of my cunt.

Squeezing your hardness. Little contractions, fast, then slower, holding your cock for longer.

Now contracting harder, the whole sheath squeezing my cock inside, then releasing.

You can hear me breathe faster, shallower; moaning a little. Rocking my hips, rotating them, swirling even, riding you.

You can feel my hand move towards my clit, as I work myself towards the
orgasm, I touch the base of my cock with every stroke.

You can feel the sticky wetness running down, you realise how aroused I am because I'm so incredibly wet; my cunt is throbbing, my moaning louder and you realise I am hardly aware anymore that you are there. 

When I come, you disappear.

Hold this image in your mind, concentrate on it.

Feel me there.

Now, play the audio.

Hear me come.


When the file finishes, you may touch yourself.

Bring yourself as close as you can without an orgasm, then stop.

Now, tell me how it went.

Ask nicely, and I may say ''yes''.