This wasn’t meant to happen either.

So, I don’t know how we’d classify what we are doing here, but I like it, it makes me feel good about myself, and as long as you are happy for me to serve, I am happy to.”

So we both knew it wasn’t built to last. The intensity of a remote relationship, when the distance will never be broached, is finite. Reality must have its way, real life will make its demands. And the emotional bill for mounting months of masturbatory pleasure must be paid.

Goodbye, C. You have taught me about things I didn’t know existed. More than that, you taught me that I have reserves within me. Of discipline, control, passions and desires. Above all, you taught me the beauty of submission, and that wanting it doesn’t make me a bad person.

I’m a little lost right now, but I am sure I’ll find my way soon. And no one can take away the pleasure and happiness you gave me.

 

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Glow

So I rise and enjoy the cold steel around me, a clasp that grasps and holds me. Three days you are away and I need to own this to show you I can. To prove your control fits me well. You release me from it when it pleases you. Control is the harness I wear for your pleasure.

I ponder this as I lube my slumbering cock and ease it into its holster. No matter how much I wipe my hands, fingers slip on the steel and frustrate my attempts to close tight the ring with everything held in, like repacking a case at the end of a holiday. Already I feel its pull like your hands upon me. It hangs like a clockweight to regulate my body and mind across the day. And the movements of my hands.

On the train is the thrill of carrying a secret. My thighs squeeze it and there may be pinches and sliding burns, winces and turns to escape a sharp nip as the carriage passes over a bump and we lurch towards work. Where I will sit and take moments between the busy, to feel your pull, safely encased and utterly beholden. I’ll offer up silent thanks to your desires, feeling fully pinned to my seat.

And the burden will pull and the heat will make me peel clammy flesh surreptitiously. I’ll walk in a series of adjustments along the crowded pavements, with an unnatural hand casually placed in a pocket. The itch that cannot be scratched drives desire that cannot be sated.

At bed I uncase the shrivelled prisoner who senses quickly his chance to escape, to cause an uprising. And the aches, itches, twitches and suppression of the day are released as it grows fat in my hand. But there is no parole tonight.

The ritual of limitation can sit heavily sometimes. But somewhere far away, you are drifting off to sleep. The thought of my cage is still fresh in the flush of your breasts and the wetness of your fingers. And knowing that creates the glow that sits in my centre as I wish you goodnight.

Wicked Wednesday 279: Sugar

 

We sit in silence and I sip my tea.

Her coffee is black.

As she uncaps her pen, I press at pastry flakes on my plate with sticky fingers. The background clatter masks our hushed voices.

She’s looking at lists, scribbled dos and don’ts. I’m remembering how it felt when her hand filled me slowly with, first, a finger, then her largest toys: my cries and her joy. And how tenderly she stroked my hair after, as I lay in her lap, aching and violated.

“This time do you want to be watched?”

“No – no one else there – just you and me”

“Fine. No one will watch”

She picks up the pen and scratches out another condition from the list of wishes and hard stops. I put down my cup in the flat well of the saucer. The tea’s cold and stewed tannins have furred up my tongue.

“Anal?”

“Just fingers and a plug”

“A probe”

“Okay, I’ll go with a probe”

A pause, while waitstaff take an age to bus and wipe a neighbouring booth. She’s reviewing her notes, flicking back through pages. Her drink remains untouched.

As I watch her I think of those weighted links that hung so hard from my nipples, which she delighted in pulling. Harder and harder as I begged her to stop, her own breasts full with arousal, swaying with the weight of desire as she yanked at my chain.

“What about choking? Did we agree hands only, no belts?”

I nod. She nods. No need for correction. I lick stray icing from the corner of my mouth.

“Fisting?”

I give her a look. She pauses, then recalls.

“Oh. Yeah. Fingers and a plug only, got it”

“And a probe” I add to reassure her.

She reaches for the coffee but stops short. Looks quizzically at me again.

“The crop, hand and paddle, not the tawse. Ass, upper thighs, lower back and shoulders?”

And I’m back there again, feeling that smack on the top of my legs. I’m thrashing hard, the lashing holding me firmly to the frame. A flicker of fight or flight before my head drops, and I stop resisting the crop.

“Nothing round the front” I add.

She writes it down.

“What about the balls?”

I pause to consider as she sips her bitter brew, before asking me for the sugar.

“One lump or two?”

 

See who else has been writing some sweet stuff this week by clicking on the rings below.

Wicked Wednesday... a place to be wickedly sexy or sexily wicked

Masturbation Monday: “Good”

“You can look but you can’t touch me.
Or yourself.
Watch me, slut.
Hands away, and watch.
See me, touching the lips.
Can you taste me yet, bitch boy?
Okay, now touch yourself.
Long, slow strokes.
Slow down, cum slut.
You are going to want to feel EVERY second of this.
No spit – I want you to feel raw.”

Good.

“Oh, yes, slut, you want it, don’t you?
Faster.
Close?
Now STOP.
Lick two fingers and stroke it up the length, REALLY SLOWLY.
Stop at the top, under the head.
Make those fingers wet, boy.
Got some precum there? Well don’t waste it.
Circles around the hole.
Now lick them. Taste yourself, slut.”

Good.

“Hold those balls, roll and rub them between your fingers.
Feel good?
Now, slap that cock, left and right.
Beat it away with your other hand – KEEP HOLD OF YOUR BALLS, BITCH.
Now pull them.
Down.
Slowly stretch.
And squeeze them until they ache.”

Good.

“Now stroke again.
Stroke and watch me.
See how my fingers fit inside my wet cunt?
See how I open myself for you to watch?
Keep stroking boy, I want to see a LOT more precum than that.
See my pretty clit when I pull back its covers? See how, ohhhhhhhhh, it feels when I touch it.
Can you see how hard it is?
It’s swollen and hard at the thought of you not coming, slut.
Does that turn you on?
The thought of me being turned on by you not coming makes you want to come?
That’s fucked up, isn’t it, bitch boy?
Stroke faster, count me to five, slowly, once for each stroke and tell me what a whore you are.”

“One, I am your whore, ma’am
Two, I am your whore, ma’am
Three, I am your whore, ma’am
Four, I am your whore, ma’am
Five, I am your whore, ma’am”

“You feeling that now, slut?”

Good.

“Taste this.
It’s been in my cunt as you counted.
Lick it up and down the length, and then take the whole knuckle in your mouth.
I want you to gag on this, you dirty fucker.
That’s enough.
Now, I’m going to touch you – HANDS BEHIND YOUR BACK, SLUT.
Can you feel how wet my hands are?
So nice after your dry paws, rubbing it raw.
Can you feel the relief, the wetness, slippery and slick, rubbing you harder?
I hope you’re not thinking of coming, boy.
Because that would be worse.
Especially coming over me now.
“A second on my tits, a lifetime slapping your dick”.
Yes, you know that.”

Good.

“Now think, whore.
Close your eyes.
As I’m stroking, think about coming over me.
Think about that release, the force of all that cum pouring over me.
Think of covering my tits with your hot muck.
Think of the sounds you would make, bitch.
Not yet.
You have more work to do.
Was that a twitch?
You need to steady that, bitch.
Manage it for me.
Because you will get it twice as bad from me if you come now.”

Good.

“I’m going to leave you for a bit.
I’m going to watch you.
If you stop stroking, I’ll smack you.
Hard.

And not how you like it.
Did you enjoy that, bitch?
Show me.
It’s nice and red now, hey slut?”

Good.

“I’m going to help you come today.
We’re going to come on my command.
But I’m not going to stop.
We’re going to rub until you are wanked out and begging for mercy.
Keep it hard for me, bitch – I don’t want you feeling disappointed by that. Because the other option is you don’t come at all.
Which will it be, bitch?”

“Come, ma’am”.

Good.

“Here we go, faster now.
Can you feel that, slut?
When you come, you are to call out my name.
You need to tell me who owns your come, slut.
Not yet.
Ready?
Because I am going to keep going, rubbing your cock until you have come everywhere and then keep on rubbing your cock head until you can’t stand it and beg me to stop.
Because believe me, bitch, you will beg me to stop.
We’re going to come until you drop.”

Good.

“And then you’re going to keep rubbing until you’ve watched me come.
And I can take a LONG time…”

 

Click on the logo below to see who else is playing this week:

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Sinful Sunday 338. ‘Fluid’ theme: Cream

Something a little light-hearted this week.

Things can get a little hot in the kitchen.

And you have to lick up those stray drips, dribbles and other fluids.

Maybe a mouthful to swallow. The cat who got the cream.

IMG_4422

Find out who else has been going with the flow this Sunday by clicking on the kisser below:

Sinful Sunday

 

(And not that there’s a chance, but this is not entering the prize competition…)

Wicked Wednesday 278: Fingers

Your fingers nimbly knot my wrists fast to the bedstead and then stroke my eyes shut. You touch them to my lips to tell me to listen. Their tips press, splayed and spread across my chest and gather at the nipples – to turn, twist, pull and pinch, and send my back arching in response.

I feel them move down, tracing arabesques past my ribs, then black-tipped talons that dig and gouge at my sides, scoring the flesh like fresh dough made ready to rise. My shivering torso tingles, peppered with puckering goose pimples, and I want to open my eyes. But I must learn to feel what you tell me through your touch.

Now your strong grip flips me over, I twist at the wrists, and you ball a fist to pummel that vulnerable place. Then they flatten to a paddle and the beating, repeating until I’m crimson, tenderised and begging to stop. And you stop. You suck your thumb and parting my ass, slide it up into me, hard and firm.

I tense slightly at the moment of entry, and then relax, pushing down onto the ball of your thumb. With the remaining fingers you press down, holding me like a bowling ball, massaging faster and harder, feeling the base muscle of my cock, under my balls, rise into a hardened ridge.

Then I’m back on my back, and I feel you wrap around me, one finger at a time, like a boa constrictor that grasps and wrestles my swelling self, sliding slow and slick up, and now you grip. The tip of your thumb on my frenulum, pressing like a g-spot, making me writhe, and curse, but I will not look. You curve the forefinger under the lip of my swollen head, and lift gently like milking a weeping teat. But not yet.

Because now I can feel you close, your hair in my face, your own face pressed to my chest and the sharp edge of your teeth sink in. Those firm fingers have tightened their grip and I feel the heaving of your breath over me, your other hand is reaching into you. And you’re shaking, gripping me tight with five fingers, gripping yourself with the others. And I feel it all: the world black and shaking, me surging through you, my cock held in your fist as I pour and I cry out.

And into my open mouth you force your fingers. I suck, tasting the feelings I’ve drawn from you, and close my lips. My mouth, and myself, both wrapped around your finger.

 

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Wicked Wednesday... a place to be wickedly sexy or sexily wicked

Sinful Sunday 337: making the most of it

I was inspired this morning by Ruth (@katteroo_) and the glorious pic of her welcoming the brilliant bright sunshine on a lazy September Sunday morning. We’ll have precious few of these left this year so we need to make the most of them. 

See who else is raging against the dying of the light this week by clicking on the kisser below:

Sinful Sunday