Out of reach

Today was an uncaged day. My Domme likes to do this as a change of pace from locking me up. She lets me touch myself, and encourages me to edge as often as I can get away with. But I’m not allowed to come and I have to tell her about my edging fantasies. As she puts it: “I want to know how full of filth your head is, slut.”

Sometimes I record her a note, other times I’ll spin out a fantasy after I have recovered from edging near orgasm. Below is a text I sent my Domme of the denial fantasy I was having while edging for her. If it’s a bit rough, it’s because it’s hard typing with one hand…

Mistress not only approved me to post it here, she ordered me to. So, here it is:

“I’m spread eagled with a spreader bar between my ankles. My hands are tied behind my head to the wrought iron bedstead. And you are between my legs, naked. You are dragging your breasts up the inside of my thighs, bringing them to rest on my balls. Using your erect nipples you drag up and down my rigid cock, wiping the aureoles around the weeping cock head to make them nice and sticky. You suck one yourself as you gently play with your outer lips, reaching the odd finger inside. You then straddle my chest and shove the other breast into my mouth, telling my to choke on my own slutty pre-cum.

You continue to sit on me. And you open up your juicy cunt wide with the fingers of one hand while you reach slowly inside with the other. You withdraw the wet fingers to show me. You wipe them down my cheek. So I can smell you but can’t quite reach it with my tongue. And you use those wet fingers to circulate your clit.

It swells and you stroke it harder, squeezing your tits with your other hand. You’re grinding back and forth and moaning loudly. My cock is about 3 inches behind you but not touching, my face is a foot away but I can’t taste you. You are now looking into my eyes and you can see the hunger in them. You can see that I want you. I want you so badly. I want to pin you down and fuck you hard. The fire in my eyes says I can’t ever be satisfied until I have fucked you in three holes.

But I can’t have you.

Pre-cum has covered my cock head and is leaking a rivulet down the side. You reach behind and VERY slowly stroke down my cock. My wetness makes your hand glide down smoothly. You grip it hard and YANK it up and I scream with pain, arousal and the sheer impossibility of touching you.

Two more fast strokes and you sense that is enough. You let go and turn back to face me. You watch my face contort with agony as the wave of my ruined orgasm smashes into me and a single streak of hot cum hits the middle of your back. The rest is furiously spilling over my cock and balls like a brimming barrel in a rainstorm. I scream your name as the pain and pleasure melt into one and I wrestle my bindings.

I collapse exhausted and broken. You continue to rub your clit faster and faster, you’ve seen the fire in my eyes die and you want me to know who is in charge. As you approach orgasm your barking moan begins, it rolls in waves and you slide down my chest, pinning my shoulders with your knees. As you come you grab and squeeze your breasts and thrust your cunt into my face, grinding against my mouth and nose, soaking it thoroughly.

You sit on my face until the waves of your orgasm have gone. I can hear, taste, breathe, smell and see only you. You are now all my senses. You get up, slowly, dribbling as much cunt juice on my body as you can, marking your territory.”

See what other wicked writers have been up to this week at #WickedWednesday http://wickedwednesday.rebelsnotes.com/

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


#Sub-fiction: Two belts

“We’ve got 15 minutes, get that shirt off.”

“But we haven’t got any of our stuff.”

“We’re wearing everything we need. Now, stand up”

I’m sat on a bed. Downstairs, the party is in full swing. We’ve stepped out for a ‘break’ and are hoping no one comes in. Slowly, I get to my feet and as I pull off my t-shirt, I can feel your hands loosening my trousers with quick-fingered efficiency. With a dextrous flick of the wrist, in one movement my belt is swiped from around me like the whip off a spinning top. You hold it between your hands, doubled, like a circus strongman brandishing a bent poker.

I unfasten the remaining buttons on my jeans and slip them and my pants over my knees. But as I go to take off my shoes, my attention is diverted by the crack of leather, as you snap both halves of the looped belt together.

“That’s far enough, bitch. You don’t need to go any further than that”, you say, looping the belt around my neck, drawing it through the silver metal square like an improvised leash. You tug, testing its strength, forcing my chin up as the cinch tightens around me.

Still holding the belt like a lead, you unfasten your own belt. It’s thinner and shorter, but perfect for what you need.

“Hold still, bitch, or else it’ll hurt. More”

A small release of pressure around my neck, and I gratefully draw a full breath, only to lose it quickly as the rough edge and tiny clasp of your belt pinch the base of my cock. You pull both belts taut in triumph, and I stay very still. Suddenly I’m only aware of my vulnerability – the loud party music downstairs, the voices in the hall. My cock starts to shrink a little in its improvised ring.

But you’re loving it. I can see it in your eyes, wide and flashing. And the tiniest upturn at the corner of your mouth. You can feel my fear in the tension of the belt, that uncertainty in my eyes when I know you’re going to enjoy trying to get us into trouble.

You turn your back on me and letting the cock belt drop, you walk me across the room with my leash pulled tight over your shoulder like a shovel. I stagger, nearly tripping over my half-mast trousers.

“Get on your fucking knees, you slut”.

And as if to make the point, you tug the neck lead down and I stumble over, face level with your groin. Still holding the lead under tension, your right hand strokes the line of my jaw, almost tenderly. Then renders a huge slap, swift and unexpected, with almost no back lift.

My eyes sparkle and my ears are ringing before the pain even registers. When I refocus, my face is being held firm with your hand on the belt, almost touching my jaw. I’m forced to stare at your other hand as it delicately unbuttons your own jeans. Two fingers slip inside and I recognise the urgency of your need to touch yourself. I’m so close to you that, as you open up your jeans, I can smell the desire from your damp panties.

After a few seconds rubbing, I’m roused from my reverie as we’ve reached our short journey’s destination: the door. You open it and, wedging my belt on a short length in the jamb, you force the door shut, trapping the belt tight between frame and door. Now all I can do it listen to you behind me. And await what comes next.

I inhale sharply as your hand comes between my legs, and in a second your belt is off me, and you’ve spread my legs. I can’t see you, but I can sense you behind me, your breathing deeper, almost a pant. I can hear the sound of furious fingers on lace panties. A long, low moan.

So when it comes, it is still a shock. And the sounds registers before the pain. A loud snap, like the report from a derringer. And then the electric shock across my ass as your belt completes the circuit, flaying a pink strip across both buttocks. I yelp and the cinch tightens. Automatically I reach for the belt, to release the pressure when the second stroke strikes in parallel to, but an inch apart from, the first.

The sting feels so pure. A searing laser beam of pain. Reflexively, I lurch forward and grab the belt around my neck with both hands, holding up my entire weight, while my ass convulses from the force of both strikes. Like a movie hero dangling from a cliff, I’m clinging on, but in a planking position, praying for release. I feel the leather start to burn the palms of my hands when the third crack of your improvised whip makes me drop my hips to the floor.

I’m almost blinded by the pain – I see stars and feel like the air has been squeezed from my lungs. I’m not sure which way is up but I can hear voices, and footsteps in the corridor only inches from my face. I’m gasping for breath, desperate to keep all my bodily noises to a minimum. I twist on my leash like a man on a death slide, hanging on, waiting for the impact.

And then it comes – and I hit the floor with a jarring shock. On my back, gasping at the sudden rush of fresh air into my lungs. The leash is no longer tight, but I can feel the blood flow back into the skin of my neck and a second later the accompanying flood of pain where the buckle has bitten in deep. I open my eyes, and find I am staring up at you. You’re smiling and holding on to the door handle. The door you just opened.

“Come on, fuck toy. There’s work to be done”

And you slam the door with vigour, and then roll me onto my stomach. My face and shoulders are flat against the rough carpet, my hips in the air, resting on folded legs. My position is one of total supplication. I’m still getting used to breathing, gingerly feeling my neck for wounds, when I feel the familiar touch of your belt slip around my cock and balls, and yelp sharply as you draw it tight, back between my legs.

After the last few minutes, I’m focusing on my breathing. My mouth is insanely dry, I’m desperate for a drink, so I don’t really notice the gentle, rhythmic tugging on my cock, but it has the effect of keeping me pinned to the floor. But I can glance over my shoulder and see you standing there.

Your own jeans have gone and those cum-soaked panties are stuck mid-thigh, one hand pulling absent-mindedly at the belt that’s encircling my cock and balls. The other is pawing at your open cunt as you watch the lead rise and fall between my legs.

Suddenly, you’re on me, and the pain is sharp and real. I can feel you straddling my raised ass, but facing backwards and the pull on my cock is now hard, regular and forceful. Everyway downward pull feels like you’re pulling my cock off, and I’m inching backwards, the carpet burning my knees and elbows.

The skin at the base of my cock has been rubbed raw. But now the pull is slower, there’s a drag on the belt, and we’ve stopped our slow shuffle back across the room. I can’t see your face, but I know so well, those movements: the roll of the shoulders, the angle of your head. I can hear those familiar noises – the yearning squeals, and low moans that almost sound like growls. I don’t need to see your face to figure out the belt that starts at my cock, threads through the cleft of my ass, is now being pulled up across your throbbing clit.

I dig in to the carpet to ride this out. With my cock as the spring, you draw the belt up faster and faster, each stroke giving me a dull ache of pain, like a man on the rack. I feel the movement of your orgasm before I hear it – you’re clutching at your belt, furiously stroking it against you and I’m stretched almost to breaking point beneath. My thighs are shaking so hard I can’t stand this for much longer, and as your orgasm starts to take hold, we collapse, as one, onto the bedroom floor.

You haven’t even broken stride. You are sprawled, indomitable, across my broken body, eyes closed, fingers clutching your leather belt that is pressed tight against your cunt, the other end grinding carpet burns into my cock. And the fingers of your other hand pulsing a rhythm on your glistening clit, as you thrash against me, all elbows, head and hips.

At last it is over. We lie still at first, our hearts pounding with the basslines from the music below, listening to the noises of our bodies. The slow peeling of flesh from flesh, rapid breathing, desperate to bring down the pulse rate, the agonising sound of the friction of sticky bodies on dry carpet.

You get up, cool again, now. You get dressed in silence. At the door you turn to me:

“See you downstairs. Slut”

My limbs are heavy, it feels gravity has doubled since I came into this room. I wearily rise and gather my clothes. All still here at least. Except for my thick black leather belt. In its stead, a thin, whip-like replacement.

Sub-fiction: Scrubber

It was the ad that intrigued me:

No timewasters.

She had been true to her word. I was on call most of the time, with little time to enjoy the baking heat of the hillside villa. My duties mostly covered light cleaning and preparing drinks, under her watchful gaze. It was not hard work, but she insisted on attention to detail, showing me at some length the exact ways she wanted me to do things. Placing her hand on mine as she demonstrated polishing; despite the air temperature, I could still feel her own body heat along my back, and in her fingers, as she pressed me close, our joined hands working faster along the length of the balustrade. And there were rigorous inspections of my work, while I stood silently watching. Rubbing her fingers slowly around the curves of everything I’d cleaned.

Day three, I got up as usual to prepare her breakfast: black tea, grapefruit, sliced melon. But something had changed in the night. Gone were my clothes and instead the only thing left in my drawer was an apron from the kitchen. Being ten miles from the nearest town meant there wasn’t really time to buy a new wardrobe.

Wearing what was set out, I knocked gently at the door, holding the usual meal tray.

“COME” came the reply from within.

I stepped into the room and, as usual set the tray on the floor at the end of the bed. Often she would be asleep, swaddled in a single Egyptian cotton sheet against the morning heat that was trapped in this tiny room. But today she was awake. One leg was outstretched to the side, wrapped in the sheet with just her painted toes peaking out. The other was also spread, but with a knee pointed at the ceiling, foot flat on the bed. And nothing covered her as her right hand languidly played with her exposed cunt. She was looking directly at me, and I caught her eye as I started to rise from the floor.

For ten seconds, nothing happened. Neither of us moved, spoke or broke eye contact. It seemed like I didn’t breathe, and the only movement was the collection of beads of sweat in the hollow at the base of my neck. I felt horribly naked, crouching like a cornered animal at the end of the bed.

She moved first, resuming the movement of her right hand, digging around her clit with curled fingers, the slap of moist skin the only noise. I broke the stare first; out of the corner of my eye, I could see her abandoned knickers at the foot of the bed. It was barely a flicker, but she had me.

“Why don’t you pick them up and give them a sniff, scrubbing boy?”

It was rhetorical, of course. I did as I was told. I picked them up, held the gusset to my face, and inhaled. It was like her scent in espresso form, as images flooded my mind; the movement of her fingers and the olfactory imprint of her moisture created a 4-D movie in my brain, synchronised with the rising and falling of the sheets around her breasts and my own escalating heart beat. I closed my eyes and drew a further, deeper breath and felt my apron straining at the front.

When I opened my eyes, she was there in front of me, two inches from my face, her breathing raised to a low pant. I could see the shine of moisture in her flushed cheeks and breasts, and her whole body shone in the low orange light of sunrise. Without uttering a word, she pushed the panties into my mouth with two fingers.

“Taste me, scullery boy”.

The salty, slightly metallic tang rolled around my tongue, which pressed hungrily against lace and silk. I could feel her hands pull away the apron and the last vestige of my shame. Not daring to move, I let her explore my body: tonguing so gently at my nipples, her hands found my ardent cock and roughly wanked it to full erection. In contrast, her fingers delicately smeared off the pre-cum. She pulled me close, literally nose to nose, and then her hands were on my ass, pulling the cheeks apart hard, and smearing my precum and her juice, from separate hands, onto my asshole. She saw the surprise and nervousness in my eyes and laughs.

And now her fingers ease into my ass, stretching me, as my cock grinds against her lower belly and mound. She moves in to kiss, and I close my eyes, but instead I feel her teeth teasing the knickers out of my mouth. Then suddenly I am facing the wall. She has whipped me around 180 degrees and, in one movement, my wrists are bound by the apron strings. It’s tight, and she laughs again as I instinctively strain to free myself. But I’m not really trying, because this is where I want to be.

So when she grabs my hair and jerks back my head, I go with it, her fingers caressing and squeezing my throat. Her left hand holds my head tight, pinned back, while her right slides under my arms and pinches my nipples, tweaking and twisting each one in turn for a minute. I feel her teeth in my shoulder as she does this – with each twist of the nipple, my body flinches, and her teeth go deeper into the flesh. Finally she bites and sucks hard on the oval area her teeth have demarcated, before pulling me back on to the bed.

Hands behind my back, I find myself looking up at her as she towers over me, her dripping cunt inches from my face, her reddening breasts jutting out, obscuring her face. From here she is a wall of cunt and tits, and is going to come crashing down on me. She leans forward, thrusting out her hips, and all goes dark as she settles on my face, pressing her wet, sweet lips onto my nose and mouth. One hand steadies her on the bed and the other is scratching my chin as she rubs down hard on her swollen clit. And I start to eat for all I am worth, hungrily lapping up the juices I smelled earlier, and rubbing my nose into the well of her anus.

She lowers her hips and leans on both hands and we are almost one. Arching her back and pushing back low she is grinding into my face her wet open cunt. I feel her surround me as her thighs squeeze in from the sides, and her clit is being prickled by the beard growth on my chin.

Faster and faster she pushes, and by now she flat on top of me, her hands grasping the back of my knees for purchase. With every forward thrust, she brushes against my cock, I feel the wetness of her face cool against its head, every backward thrust, like a slap in my face.

She has ground so low she has pushed my chin right up and my head back. Suddenly air fills my lungs, and I gulp and squint in the brightness of sunrise as I feel her come, her thighs squeezing my head, juice streaming down my neck and collecting in my clavicle. I yell, as she bites down hard on my thigh. I feel the heavy groans of pleasure shake her whole body. And she is still.

Her weight suddenly shifts forwards, pinning my shoulders and I feel my legs swing up, as she slips her panties over my feet and down my sweating thighs. She pulls them up hard, like cheesewire along my perineum. They can barely contain my twitching cock.

She dismounts me, and pull me to the edge of the bed by my hair, rolling me off into a kneeling position. It is time for the final act and I am ready to give in. She cups my sticky, bruised face in one hand so I am looking straight at her. She is sat on the edge of the bed, naked and glistening, the rising sun behind her creates a silhouette of desire. Spreading wide her legs, she teases and strokes her flushed wet cunt, while one leg presses onto my lace-covered cock. She rocks her foot back and forth in time with the way she touches herself. Faster we go, as she presses harder and rubs further as her toes grip the edge of my cock length and the elastic in her panties begins to bite and chafe. She closes her eyes, parts her lips and tips back her head as the orgasmic convulsions roll through her again.

I can stand this no more, and as her foot presses the ache deeper inside me, I am finally released. It rips through me, my arms tense within their bindings, my knees rubbed raw on the stone floor. I cry an animal howl as I flood her panties with cum, running down my legs and pooling beneath me on the slate. Her foot has gone, and the delicious ruin of my orgasm leaves me thrashing against the apron ties that dig deeper into my flesh. Now I am a dripping, broken mess lying panting on my side.

I can’t open my eyes, even as I feel now her tender fingers loosen the strings around my wrists and arms. I slump onto my chest, not caring if my face catches the floor. I see next to me the drippings of my own lust, white and thick against the dark floor. And I hear her voice in my ear:

“Lick it up, scrubber”.

Come to think of it

Dear C.

After the crash comes the rebuilding.

Our whirlwind of a project started in quite modest circumstances. Writers of sub porn wanted for Domme. No reciprocity, just the pleasure of providing. The first piece ‘landed’ well, and a week later I was a virtual sub, feeling my way into the role, quite literally sometimes. And the obvious question is: how does something based online make you feel? Can it turn you on?

I can be turned on by the simplest things – sweat glimpsed on a neck, a chance encounter with someone, an intimate moment shared by serendipity. The more subtle will usually stir something deeper, connected to a deep-seated desire.

My taste in what turns me on is broad, but what it tends to have in common is the idea of the imperfect body. What I think binds the threads of my desire is that I see the sexual beauty in almost anyone. I can look at a woman and, no matter her attributes, can imagine a sexual inner life (or, rather, fantasise about one – this is clearly pure projection).

Because I had to work quite hard to accept my own body – I was terribly awkward, very skinny and sexually unconfident as a younger man/youth. Underneath I found it hard to accept I was entitled to a healthy sexual relationship for a long time – in short, I couldn’t accept that I was desirable. So, in coming to understand myself and accept my body, I take sexual pleasure in the sheer variety of the human female form.

But here my points of reference were removed and, at first, I felt a bit emasculated by the loss of control. Part of that process of submitting to your control was exercises in forced masturbation. To set times, for set periods, without external stimulus during the session. Sometimes these sessions would seem like just friction and the ‘mechanisation of masturbation’ was tough to get my head around.

And at the centre of it was You.

You, whom I had gotten to know only through words, yet whose messages acted like a defibrillator, when they arrived. You have seen literally all of me, and read about most of my deepest desires and secrets, but my sense of You built tantalisingly slowly. I would pour over snippets of details trying to construct a sense of You – an extraordinarily powerful presence, yet still frustratingly ethereal to make sense of. You were a net for measuring water.

But after Crash Wednesday, I felt something was shifting.

Because now I was no longer creating content for Your fantasies. I was centre stage being controlled for Your pleasure. You were now the object of my desires yet I had nothing I could focus on. Sure, Your messages would stir my loins, even the apparently innocuous ones. So the question them became:

Was I wanking for You or over You?

Your pleasure comes from the control. You tell me when to come, when to ruin, when to wank, when to abstain, when to edge and then deny myself. So, in my mind, the question of what I was thinking of was almost immaterial. It was the outcome not the motivation that was key.

But as the time went on, the focus shifted further. My work was giving You pleasure, and gradually You allowed more compliments. You told me when my writing made You come. We had spontaneous sessions where we were the active participants, and You talked me through elaborate JOIs that left me hanging beautifully. None of the power of Your words was lost – it was hot, powerful, highly-charged, very fucking sexy. It took all of my discipline to hold back. A sense of the You-ness of you was slowly emerging.

And it was really odd, because I have never seen a complete picture of You, directly. But I have a sense of You. I see You as powerfully voluptuous, a sensual presence, with a greedy cunt, forceful fingers, and determination to get what You want and to use Your obedient sub to get it. You are a presence I can’t see yet who can make me come in a heartbeat. With each additional piece of information, a picture builds up that excites me more with each reveal.

This is a challenge to traditional male sensibilities. The drive to the orgasm in male masturbation leads also to a focus on the surface of the object of desire. And it is an object – it’s the bubblegum superficiality of a Playboy bunny. It doesn’t matter if there is nothing behind, it’s a transactional, teleological, endgame. Eats, shoots and leaves.

But to create a fantasy figure with the thinnest of visual materials feels like building a house from the top down. To have a focus of orgasm for whom you don’t even know what their face is like, seems incomprehensible to most men. But that is exactly what has happened. And though the dry wanks were tough, I have come through to the other side with such a fervent desire, it needs the Hoover Dam to hold it back.



Crash Wednesday

Dear C.

The Wednesday after I first talked with you I had my epiphany. It went like this:

Me: “Reading that actually made my heart beat a little faster and I’m a little breathless.” 

C: “You actually need this, don’t you?”

Me: “Yes. Yes, I think I do.”

I stared at my phone for several minutes. I knew then not just that I was going to choose to commit but that I needed to.  I was trying to piece together what had happened to me since the previous weekend that had taken me from a man carrying a secret like a tumour to this point of realisation. Because you had happened to me.

In three days, I had gone from writing smut to order to giving you control of my body. You were breaking me down piece by piece, in order to rebuild me as the sub you wanted me to be and that I needed to be. No more lying to myself. But accepting and accepted. But I had to hit the bottom first.

I thought I liked pain and wanted someone to give it to me. And I do. But that wasn’t what I really needed. So, you didn’t start by hectoring or demanding. You started by asking me about myself. My desires and thoughts, which I had thought stupid and shameful.

Then you gave me a challenge.

You asked me to masturbate 10 times without coming and without ‘stimulus material’. This had to be done at set times. If I missed a slot, I had to wait until the next one, two hours later. I could wank for no less than 5, no more than 10 minutes. And I had to record what happened for you.

With typical naiveté, I assumed the challenge was the task you gave me to do. In reality, the challenge was how I committed to doing the task not the outcome. I was to learn that sometimes you have to give me seemingly pointless tasks to remind everyone of their position. That the pleasure for us both comes not in the doing but in the agreeing to the doing. By saying yes and doing it faithfully. Submitting to your whim in whatever way it manifests itself.

I did 5 in 12 hours and wrote three-page reports on each within an hour. The petty timing disciplines, and punishment for transgression underlined our roles. I warmed to that and the theme of denial as a story arc over several days allowed you to control more or less my every waking minute. Pretty soon I understood that was the pleasure for you. But instead of feeling used or cheated, I found I was gratified. By the pleasure that gave you. But there was something else happening too.

By denying me stimulus in my careful prescribed sessions, you forced me to dig deep in my creativity. The set ups, the micro-pressures that the situation creates, and that I probably projected onto it, created ‘anxiety erections’. Just about qualifying. You were daring me to get hard and that produced a vulnerability that impacts that very action. Fear of failure could have been a self-fulfilling prophesy. That you didn’t care whether I got hard or not was beside the point. The sub mindset is always to be on the alert for ways to please or fear of transgression. It’s a sort of enjoyment of unease.

Working under this tension was new. Because up to that point I had been the one who was in control of my submissiveness, which sounds paradoxical. But, you know – I set up the situations, I defined the timings. Doms may have called the shots in the sessions, but they had no real leverage over me. This felt like actual, proper subbing. Like I had something precious to lose. Something I had spent a long time looking for, and stumbled across extemporaneously. I was utterly terrified. I felt completely out of control.

I could feel it building inside me throughout that afternoon. The tension, the anxiety. Was I investing too much in this and it would be revealed as a cruel joke? I wanted to believe but didn’t dare. I felt sick at that thought, and fear ate away at me as I tried to carry out my everyday, normal tasks. I started to feel constricted, a pressing on my chest. My thoughts and feelings no longer seemed my own, I felt like the moorings on all my old desires, needs and hopes were loosening. Everything was being pulled from under me.

In desperation, I fled to the garage and sat in the car, just to find darkness and solitude. On the CD player was my favourite piece, Shostakovich’s 5th Symphony. The whole 4th movement is basically an orgasm. It’s 14 minutes and it builds and rises, like a brimming barrel and at 11 minutes it bursts in a massive release. I sat back, closed my eyes and listened to it. And cried like a baby, great racking sobs. I feel unburdened more than if I’d come.

What are you like?

From the beginning of this project, it has always been all about C.  What she liked, what she found especially hot, and what could make her come. She asked me to create content to meet her needs; anything that I got out of it was a bonus. What C. likes is control. She has a voracious appetite for it, an expressive lust that feeds off it like lions on a carcass. She roars her pleasures with passion and has a wonderfully filthy desire that sweeps you up and carries you along.

It all sits around the edge between arousal and orgasm. C. delights in maintaining the tension of denial of orgasm, getting off by keeping you on the edge of coming without achieving resolution, like a song ending on the wrong note. Frustration, vulnerability, control over permission to come, pleading, ruined orgasms, loss of control. Arousal is heightened by certain triggers of pain, such as slapping, pinching, scratching and biting. All of these administered by her.

From the start, I felt a kindred spirit in these desires. I wanted to be the object of her whim, the plaything to be tormented. I wanted her to administer the pain with the desire, to be the focus of that roughhousing. I wanted her hungry and frothing at the ways she could punish and violate me. I wanted to abase myself at her frenzied fucking.

I told C. what I like in terms of things done to me sexually, and some of the things I had tried in the past. I made her a video of me masturbating to the point of climax, then pouring hot wax all over my erect, weeping cock. At that point, I think she knew I was serious about my intentions.

But before she would take me on as a sub, she wanted me to write to her about my typical fantasies and desires, in order to get the measure of me and understand how open I wanted to be about what I liked. Confessing to my vanilla desires, however, was actually harder than describing my kinks. In a looking-glass world where pain is pleasure, it seemed prosaic to talk about ordinary fetishes.

Over the next few weeks, I would piece together an impression of her that was largely based upon a sense of her as a presence, a domme with a brain like a whip. By getting to know her as a person, a mistress and Dominant, without visual stimulus, it allowed us to achieve a much more powerful erotic connection. .

What C. was doing – through our correspondence, through setting me exercises, asking me to write down my desires and record my masturbation – was getting me to shift my focus away from the physical. Whether of a physical type of woman or my desire for that woman to fuck my arse, she was getting me to think about the real object of my desire: to lose control. What had led me to this point, from a lack of sexual fulfilment to the discovery of BDSM, was a need to give up control. To find the one who would take that burden from me, and reward me by being an object for my servile desires.

Until I met C. I never realised how much of a turn on control and domination is in its own right, quite apart from any physical characteristics. That how someone you have never met can stir deep desires through a meeting of the minds.

We could largely use words, thoughts, ideas and feelings to turn each other on, and make each other come. This meant when we introduced small visual glimpses, the effect was volcanic, as a focus for latent desire bound up in letters and recordings. When we could finally see our words made flesh and understand that the brain is truly the biggest sexual organ.