I smile every time I see or think this word. My immediate thought goes to my Master. OH, he is so very wicked, and yet he is also sensitive, and kind. His eyes, they are mesmerizing. I look into them and (though it’s often used in romance novels to excess) find myself melting into them. Of course, since this is a sex blog, it’s a very different sort of melting than, say, chocolate.

Although in both situations it can be a sticky gooey mess.

So maybe not so different after all. 😀 nilla=chocolate? Anyway, I digress. He has a wicked sense of humor, and a keen edged, dry wit that one might call droll. He teases, he taunts, he is rarely deeply serious. Until, that is, we are together, behind closed doors. Okay, sometimes not even waiting until then.

On our last playtime, his eyes met mine in the mirror. He was behind me, wrapping me up, his hands mauling my tits. I was whimpering  smiling as he pinched and squeezed and mashed my tender bits. But his eyes. Man. They’re a curious hazel, pretty, even. But there’s a wicked gleam in them when he’s hurting me, when he lets his Beast out to play.

He also likes to play wickedly/wicked hard. He lays out all the implements on the bed, one after another, so I can see them. He has 25 or 30 that I can recall, maybe more. He may not use them all (ha. As if.) but they are right there at his hand. In that wicked way of his, he’ll make me look at them if I try not to. (When he left the room to pee, I tried hiding a few of the worst. Yeah. Like that worked. NOT!)

He will torment my pussy, fucking me, as well as using toys, his fingers, until I’m aching and tender. I’ll whimper, “so sore, too much” and he’ll say, in his most soothing voice, “sshhh, I know, I know.  It hurts doesn’t it?”

And I’ll nod, and he’ll jab his fingers into me, finger fucking me wildly until I come in a violent explosion, usually soaking the bed. I’ll whimper and flail, and he’ll ssssh me, and continue on until I fall into a state of near oblivion. He’ll kiss me then, pinch my nipples, stroke my cheek, then roughly fingerfuck me again as he bites my nipple cruelly. It’s so painful, so erotic, so hot.  To be so utterly, totally consumed by him. It’s wicked, wild, wonderful.

When he is at his most wicked, I know he is at his most happy. As his slut, that makes me happy. And it turns me on. And it makes me shiver in anticipation and not just a little fear. He can hurt me so much! And I love it. I love the high, I love living off the pain for days, and the memory of it for months.

Wicked, my M, in a nifty little word.

4 thoughts on “Wicked

  1. My wife read this she accused me of being M. As if we live around the corner from each other. Even down to eye colour. Here hazel is not very common.

    1. That made me giggle, Ashly! You most definitely do not live ’round the corner from me, and I assure your wife that you are not my M. 😀 I’m sure you’re more than a decade or several, younger than both M and I!


      1. Well, you definitely aren’t M–he’s about 8-10 years my senior, and you and I are almost-sibs, age-wise! (you don’t sound that old in your commentary! But I know we both are of a certain age, aren’t we?!) Reassure your wife that i’m not going to cross the pond to date a dominant, no matter how cute his accent is. 😀


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