Sinful Sunday 333: Lockdown

This week has been about the cage. I finally got around to writing my piece about cock cages and my personal experience of them, which, in turn, provoked a few interesting conversations with a lot of lovely, and curious, people on twitter. It was such a lovely thing to have lots of different people read and comment here.

I also enjoyed the usual level of lockdown at Her demand. That feeling of secured, held-in arousal. Under her lock and key.

So this week’s image reflects those themes. Getting up close and personal with my chastity lock.

IMG_3481

See who else is released from the shackles of every day, to show a bit of sin this Sunday. Click on the smackers below:

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Armed to the teeth

I come to you with lips and tongue.

Muscles of love that connect your body to my throat.

That lick flat, poke, curl and thrust, winkling out your clit, lifting your labia.

Flicking at the goosed-flesh aureoles, retracing the wipe of my weeping cock.

Muscle memory.

 

You come to me with teeth and nails.

To sink into skin, carve flesh and scour surfaces.

Raking and ravishing the wreckage of my offering.

To stab at my heart.

Indenture.

Wicked Wednesday #273: Crawl

I knew from the note what I needed to do. So I strip down to my cage in this strange kitchen. I kneel on the rough stone floor, feeling it bite at my knees. And I say the words, loud, as a proud oath.

“You own my cock. It’s all about your desire”.

I say them so often now, I don’t stop to think if you can hear them. But you can, because you are somewhere in this dark, unfamiliar house.

I lean forward onto all fours, and I begin to crawl, crossing this wide stone floor to the next room. It’s awkward, ungainly, and by the time I reach the door my skin is broken at the knees. Small blood kisses start to mark my path, the pain makes my crawling slower and more considered. I feel how heavy my cock cage feels with no support, swaying as I limp like a wounded animal through to the next room.

The wooden floors provide some relief, but I’ve got to up my game now. Down, bitch, the instructions read. I drop my shoulders to hunker down on my elbows and forearms, leaving my ass high in the air. I move in a sort of rolling gait to the middle of the room, and wait. In that forbidding darkness, I’m desperately trying to hear sounds of movement, breathing, or a presence. But there is nothing except the rattling wind outside.

And then I feel you move among the shadows. But before I see you, I feel a sharp pain drawn across my ass at speed, wrapping round my left cheek. It feels like a whip. But then there’s another, followed by three more in quick succession, a new stroke landing before I can process the previous one’s pain. I cry out, more in surprise, until the heat kicks in, after the initial pain is gone – a delayed reaction as the welts rise on my skin, breaking the quivering flesh.

I see you move through the door, more of the after-image of a shadow than a corporeal presence. Despite the pain in my stinging ass, and bleeding knees, I crawl as best I can, haunches and shoulders rolling like a cheetah, my breathing getting faster after our brief connection.

In the next room I pause, and I feel your heeled boot upon my back. The ball of your foot presses the middle, the heel at the small of my back. “Down” comes the whispered instruction, as if the meaning from your foot wasn’t clear. I’m lying flat, chin resting on the polished floorboards, the lock of my cock cage biting into my groin. I want to scream my pain but a fear has gripped my throat, and frozen me. Doubts plague my mind – what if this isn’t you? Is this a test? Where is this taking me? Is there greater pain to come?

Sweat breaks out on my forehead, and I realise I’m shaking. I can’t physically move – I want to run, but I can’t. I want to stay but I can’t move. My heart is racing; I feel panic in my veins. But something talks to me, deep inside: “This is not about you. It’s never about you. You need to move”.

Slowly, I begin to crawl. Flat to the floor, knees weeping blood pumped by my thumping heart, my throbbing ass almost unnoticed in the pain from my cock. The sharp pain of the lock has been added to; as I pull myself across the floor, the metal ring from my cock cage drags against my scrotum’s flesh. It burns, long and itching, and I feel real tears of pain rising in my eyes.

Somehow I make it to the door. The next room is covered in a rough carpet that burns my crawling frame all over, but I barely notice. I make it over the threshold but no further. I’m paralysed by the fear, the pain and the darkness, which heightens all my senses, making everything almost unbearable.

And you are there at my side, and then I am calm. Because I know it is you. I know your scent, the feel of your hands as you stroke my back with your strong fingers. I instinctively flinch as you run your hand over each raised line on my ass, and then relax when I feel how gently you caress me. You carefully draw up my hands behind my back and tie my wrists, tying the final knot with your teeth, letting your tongue linger over the rough rope and my smooth skin.

You roll me onto my back, and pull up my knees, and I can feel you between my legs. I feel your tongue across my ripped knees, lapping flat at the leaking blood, saliva’s salt stinging my flesh, and making me groan at the delicious feeling. The intimacy of your touch at my wound is sending my body into overdrive; my nipples harden, my breathing is shallow and fast, my cock swells and strains against its confines.

You open my legs wider and my fat cock head pushes through the holes in the cage as your body presses against mine. You move slowly up until you are seated on my shoulders, three inches from my face. And all I can do is watch, as you part your outer lips and touch your inner wetness, starting to ooze onto my chest. One hand holds back your labia, middle finger pressing on your clit while the other hungrily reaches inside to find your g-spot. I can see the movement of wetness picked out by the minimal light, I can smell its freshness, and hear the pressing of flesh.

The fury of your desire is rocking you, crushing my chest, your movement fast and urgent. I hear you cry out, an animal howl, as one hand grasps desperately at your naked breasts. There will be no face fucking today. You pleasure yourself inches from my chin, and I can feel your cum seeping across me as you come with force and vigour. This is just for you. It is all about your desire.

You finish with a rolling moan that settles into a wheezy chuckle. Leaning forward on two hands, you tip your cunt to my lips, and the wetness of your orgasm pours into my mouth and across my face. You press it in, the roughness of your unshaven labia carving scratches into my pink cheeks. Two fingers then pressed to my lips demanding my pleading moans be silent. Then I am left in the darkness. With the darkness. With the leftovers of your pleasure on my leftover body.

Find out who else is being wicked this Wednesday by clicking on the rings below:

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Rock of cages

To start, a disclaimer: this is not an article about the serious use of cock cages in long-term chastity relationships. I am not a chaste sub, and my use of cock cages is relatively new and intermittent. For insight about their long-term use, I suggest an expert blog such as Giles English’s.

I use a cock cage under direction from my domme, as one of a number of tools available to enhance denial and abstinence, for days rather than months or years. Because of its association with chastity, it doesn’t seem to have crossed over into wider public use or awareness unlike other aspects of kink culture. So, I just wanted to write about its use, some practical pointers and how it feels from my personal perspective as an off-on user, including frequent questions. Because, for an object with an apparently simple purpose, it can be surprisingly complex and nuanced.

Clearly its primary purpose is to deny me the chance to touch my penis sexually. The cage encloses the shaft with a covering – in my case silicone, in some cases metal – held in place by a ring around my balls. This is locked and the key holder determines access. This may be more symbolic than actual – since real life for real people with real jobs sometimes means access is needed or, more prosaically, it is actually quite easy to get out of some cages thanks to the expanding and contracting properties of male genitalia. So, in practical terms, for me, it is largely self-policing; wearing a cock-cage is not really a ‘punishment’ – it’s something you do voluntarily and joyfully. Because the physical containment is actually secondary to its symbolic meaning. By locking up your cock for your mistress, you are demonstrating their control over your sexual desire and activity as overtly as you can.

This symbolism is powerful in terms of its impact on the wearer. Because, for me, the psychological effects are more powerful than the physical effects (though the former clearly stems from the latter). It is an extremely powerful mood enhancer, and, unless you are aware of your emotional states and things you can do to control them, it can take you by surprise. So if you are feeling good, the cage makes you feel amazing; the first time I tried it, I was obviously excited. The package arrived at my office and I tried the thing on in the loos. And it was such an amazing feeling – being locked down, that sense of connection with Her, the sheer naughtiness of it at work – I felt bulletproof. I was energised, enthused, confident and happy at work. And I thought that was the effect it would always have.

However, I soon found to my cost it’s not that simple. On days when I am maybe struggling with the control: losing focus, maybe feeling horny, feeling vulnerable or even just sad or angry for reasons outside of your relationship. On those days, the cage can feel like a weight, a burden, and can induce panicky feelings or frustration. For me, the key is to recognise this, understand how to manage these feelings, be aware of them and deal with it. Which is, actually, a part of the sub’s life anyway. But when you become aroused, things get even more confused…

One of the first questions I am asked about casual cage use is: “What happens when you get an erection?” or even “Can you still get an erection?”. To which the answer is: “sort of”. Clearly, although physical stimulation is out, visual and aural arousal remains potent, not to mention the myriad other things that seem to give men erections. But clearly the cage, even a silicone one, physically prevents expansion, doesn’t it? Well, up to a point, Lord Copper.

So, when I am turned on wearing a cage, I find the cock head expands to fill the cage end, and the rest of the cock remains concertina-ed behind, like a loaded jack-in-the-box. So the head continues to send limit arousal sensations to the brain and often a feeling of the creation of pre-cum, though actually little physical evidence. Depending on the length and severity of the arousal this can be painful or it can be, actually, quite nice – again, depending on your own mood. However, I found that this makes it impractical for use at night; the ‘morning glory’ tended to fill the cage to the point where it was pulling it off, leaving my balls being stretched by the metal ring. I’d wake up at 4am in agony, which is certainly not the aim. So now I am a day-use wearer only.

Where the above-mentioned confusion comes in is sometimes it can create a feedback loop with the brain which is a little scary. So if you are experiencing some intense or sustained arousal, you get what I call a ‘surge’. It feels like something is flowing through the penis and, as noted above, is felt in the cock head. Depending on your mood, this can be nice or frustrating or scary because it feels like something is happening beyond your control; the pulses can also create a feeling that is hard for the brain to categorise, which induces a panic. The feeling that you are not sure whether you are going to come or piss yourself, which, for most people in most situations, is, at best, inconvenient and more likely socially disastrous. Again, it’s mood and mind control – refocus, breathe, manage it.

If this makes it all sound complicated or off-putting, it isn’t and it shouldn’t be. The dynamic it creates, the sense of connection, the powerful symbolism are all highly charged and powerfully sensual. If you’re thinking of trying it, I’d like to finish with a couple of tips:

  1. Most cages come with the shaft holder and the ring, and the thing is held in place by the ring, with the testicles acting as a brake against gravity. This means the cage in situ looks something like this:

IMG_2981

This works brilliantly when you don’t have to wear any clothes, because most men do not keep their cocks in the middle of their trousers – we ‘dress’ to one side or the other. This means, in practical terms, the ring gets pulled out of position when pushed to one side, and it is common for your balls to slip through the ring, which leaves nothing holding it in place. There are few more disconcerting things than the feeling of giving a presentation to colleagues while worrying about a cock cage working its way down your trouser leg.

I found the solution to this was to construct a harness using elastic (actually a converted head torch holder, though a sports jockstrap would work as well!). Because even if your style doesn’t actually pull the thing off your bollocks when you are dressed and moving about during the day, it can still make it painful, awkward and uncomfortable, which isn’t necessarily the point. And makes you walk in a way that attracts the curiosity of your work colleagues and, no doubt, suspicious policemen on public transport.

2. I advise starting with silicone until you are convinced you want to try metal, as it is more forgiving and practical. I also advise getting a style that keeps the lock away from the body. In the image above, you’ll note the lock is threaded through the supporting ring, a very common design. Which this does mean is, apart from always pinching when you put it on, it’s very common for the lock to press in to the groin, causing agony.

3. You’ll need to piss sitting down. Better get used to that if you have a hang up about it.

4. Shave your balls and cock. Should be obvious why, but it makes everything much easier to manage. It’s not impossible whilst hairy, but the chances of catching something are increased exponentially.

Happy caging!

Sinful Sunday 332: shower 

This week I’ve been on holiday in a charming gite in France. And I’ve been in love with this shower. Wet-room style, hot and powerful, I love the enclosed space created in this huge room. To wash off the sweat of hot summer days, while letting your mind entertain less clean thoughts…


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Wicked Wednesday: Black and white

We work together in black and white. But we live in the grey in between. Newspaper advertising sales. We divide the spaces between the stories. We work out what each is worth. We calculate the page yield – what we can afford to sell each for. We work side by side.

She runs the team. Every week we go head to head with the target. We succeed or we fail. We hit page yield or we don’t.

She sits in her office, behind that big desk, fitted black power suit to match her thick black ringlets. She is about my age, but far above my status. She rose effortlessly to the top. She is decisive, clear-sighted, ruthless.

I’m in the team. Every week I work to meet the target. I succeed or I fail. I err, I hesitate. Things are black and white. Especially with her. I want her so badly, it hurts. But I can’t have her. That much should be simple.

Then things start to go grey. She knows I want her. An office party, a drunken pass. A hard slap across the cheek. And then a softer, comforting touch, stroking the pain.

And now this. In her office, summoned. She’s sat behind her gleaming ebony desk, suit buttoned up, but there’s a lot of flesh, as though she’s wearing nothing underneath. It seems whiter because of the contrast. She sees me looking at her plunging neckline. Undoes a single button.

She passes me a note, and then dials a number. It’s head office and she’s talking ad volumes and yields. I open the note:

You can’t have what you want. But I can. I want to see you yield to me. Can you take it?

Then get on your knees. And come and get it.

There it was, in black and white.

I kneel down and watch her on the phone, sliding her chair back. I can see her under the desk, as she slides out into the light, she’s wearing only cheer black stockings below the waist. And I know what I have to do.

I crawl like a dog on heat under her desk, as she slides her hips forward. And then she opens the jacket, and I gasp. Not just because of the weight of her breasts, tumbling out, with dark, puckered nipples. But between her legs at eye level is her cock.

She’s wearing a black leather harness supporting a black silicone dildo, life-size. I pause and look up. She’s looking down at me, ear pressed to the phone, but she mouths “Come and get it.” And I know what I have to do. Grabbing the toy, I open my mouth, and tentatively suck the rubbery end.

As I do so, I notice the harness is positioned to rub her clit. But before I can think about this, she grabs a handful of my hair and forces me down onto the dildo. Hard. It hits my gag reflex so quickly I swear I’ll throw up, as she circles my head, grinding my whole throat against its gritty texture and chemical taste. After what seems like an hour, but was probably only seconds, she releases the pressure, and I reflexively recoil from her lap, trailing slobbering ropes as I wheeze breathless gasps, clamouring for air in my newly liberated throat. I pause, swallow down stray saliva and fresh air, but once again she pushes me down, her hand hard against my skull and, as I gag and struggle, I can sense her own response to the movement against her clit. A sharp intake of breath, as she finishes her call.

Then I’m on my feet, swaying slightly from the rush of blood and the oxygen denial. I lean on her desk to steady myself. She gently bends me forward and starts to rub my back. Where she grabbed my hair, now she carefully massages and I feel her hot breath tickling my ear.

“I need you to take this for me. Never doubt that this is where we stand, you and me”.

And she eases down my trousers, pressing my hips onto the cold, varnished wood, my cock splayed on the table under my tense stomach. I can feel that wet plastic cock resting at the top of my arse. And again, I am down. She extends her arm suddenly and I feel the full force of her desire, my head slammed against the desk, pinned at the shoulder by her elbow. I can see her silhouette reflected in the glass of a framed picture on the wall. She looks magnificent. Imperious, and totally focused.

I hear her spit, and a second later feel the lubricating fluid between my ass cheeks. Her hand is in the middle of my back, but I no longer need her restraint. I open my legs slightly and listen to her soothing words: “Breathe out slowly, just empty your lungs and relax”.

I do so, and at the end of the exhalation, I loosen automatically, and feel the head of her dildo enter me, wet from my own saliva. I’m pressed harder against the desk, my cock stirring from its constriction and the signals being sent from my brain. I cry out, and then bite my lip, as I surrender my desire to her pleasure. A kiss on my shoulder, a whisper of encouragement in my ear, and she’s further inside me, and I can no longer cry out. I whimper a low, drawn out moan, half crying, half in ecstasy. My cock is surging in response, forcing any remaining tension into my throat, where I feel my voice tightening.

And then she is fully inside me, and we are finally united. I’m muzzled, pinned and held by both the pain and pleasure, years of frustration at her hands now released as tears running down my cheeks. She holds me tight, gripping my shoulders and grinds up and down, rubbing her cunt against the dildo wedged tight in my ass. Faster. And harder. It feels like forever.

I want to erupt, to shout, and cry, to bellow with a force that I feel being pushed into me. But I don’t want this connection to end, she riding her desires through me, finding her pleasure in my pain. “Feel me come inside you,” she gasps, as the wave of her orgasm travels down into the core of my being.

My own orgasm is now so close, and the conflict and confusion of feelings so stark, I can’t find the words or even the noises to express it. As she dismounts from my back and pulls away, I feel it hit, starting in my spine. I can barely breathe as it spills out between my belly and the table. My final offering to her, now seeping wet and unwanted, pools of white against the black table.

We work together in black and white. But we live in the grey in between. In the spaces between the words. We work out what each other is worth. We work side by side. But it will always be me who yields.

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Sinful Sunday 331: zipwire

The mix of pleasure and pain is H.O.T. And a simple way of giving Mistress pleasure through a bit of self-administered pain is a zipwire: pegs, clipped to flesh, connected by a rope. Then pulled off like a Band-Aid. 

Sometimes across the nipples, or balls, cock or inner thigh. Clip and pull – and that lovely feeling that just makes you need to touch yourself. Just the eight this time. How many next time, ma’am?


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