Sinful Sunday – Week 329

While the Domme’s away…

This Sunday, I have been abandoned by Her. But I’m locked up in my chastity cage for her, to keep my hands out of trouble. No sin on this Sinful Sunday. If I can just get it on…

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Now click on the lips to lap up the other Sunday sinners…

Sinful Sunday
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Sub-fiction: Scrubber

It was the ad that intrigued me:

WANTED FOR TWO WEEKS’ WORK: HOLIDAY SCULLERY BOY.
ATTENTION TO DETAIL IMPORTANT.
FULL BOARD AND TRAVEL INCLUDED.
HOURS: FULL TIME WAITING ON DEMANDING MISTRESS.
PAY: SERVICE IS ITS OWN REWARD.
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.

 

 

 

This wasn’t meant to happen…

“I’ve read the rules, and I’m up for this. Can I ask you a couple of questions to clarify the brief?”

This was how it started, but I am not sure how it ends.

I was responding to a request I’d stumbled across online. A woman looking for men to write her edging lit: fiction, factual or fantasy. She seemed sure of what she wanted, with some clear, no-nonsense rules. And so was I. Because as soon as I read it, I knew I could do this, and I knew I wanted to. I REALLY wanted it.

But I had to wait. Little did I realise this would actually prove good training for what was to come. Twitter got in a flap about me not giving a mobile number and put me in jail for two days. Then I waited to hear a response to my question, above. Two more days. Two more long days.

What brought me here was a mix of excitement and desperation. I considered myself a fairly normal hetero male, with reasonably good mental health, able to hold down jobs and relationships. But there was an unhappiness at the heart of me. And I didn’t know what it was. But I knew it was dark, uncomfortable, thrilling. And no good would come of bringing it out into the light. I needed a way to manage it. Make it bearable. Use it to channel my creative thoughts and emotions.

Just when I was giving up hope, she responded. She has a name, but I don’t know it. She is called C. and sometimes Ma’am. She is direct, clever, articulate, funny, accepting, non-judgmental. She is also understanding of the needs of a middle-aged man who is so desperate for answers as to what he wants and why he feels a sexual misfit. She asked me to write her an account of sexual edging and a ruined orgasm. She liked what I wrote, and we carried on talking, online.

We talked about what I liked, sexually. And what she wanted me to write about. I told her I got excited by pain, inflicted on me, in the build up to coming. That I yearned to be dominated, beaten, penetrated and marked. I needed to tell someone this, who could stop me feeling ashamed about it. Who could help me work within the constraints of Real Life, to heal myself. Who would let me channel my creativity for her pleasure, in return for a duty of care.

On the third day, I wrote to C. and told her about my feelings about sex, pain and what I hesitate to call BDSM:

“This aspect of it is hidden from the rest of the world. I don’t go to Eyes Wide Shut parties – it is deeply personal, internalised, private. At this stage it is not appropriate for either of us to elaborate on our wider lives, but you will understand this idea of course. At times it can feel like how it must have felt being a homosexual in the 1950s. The need to find an outlet for my desires – one that is constructive and doesn’t leave me too vulnerable is important to me. And has been frustrating in trying to know how to go about it, to work out in my mind how important it is to me and my life. 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.”