Cumming

He stood looking down at her, an older, silver-haired man. He looked distinguised. His hair was combed tidily, his beard and mustache neatly groomed. His eyes, the color of deep honey, crinkled at the corners from many smiles. He looked classy.  Cultured. And yet she knew better. That face was a mask, for under the mask lay a monster. A tremor shook her violently, her body arching and her mind torn from thoughts of her tormentor.

“You wanted to cum. Remember, slut?”

His voice cut through the lingering shudders. Her wrists and ankles were already pinkened from straining at the bonds that held her spread upon the bed. She refused to answer, or couldn’t, it was hard to say at this point. Dispassionately he looked at her heaving chest, her tits still quivering from the force of the orgasm. Her nipples, once they’d been pinched hard by his fingers, were clamped now, weighted and tugged to the side of her body with her convulsive movements. Likewise, her cuntlips were spread, grabbed by clamps, and taped to her inner thighs to allow the fat-headed super vibe to press up against her innermost flesh, torturing her clit and pussy.

She shook her head at long last.

“Ah, but you did. When I came home last night, after sending you messages to edge yourself, what did I find but my slut, sprawled in the bed asleep, her cunt soaked. Why my dear, the very bed you’re laying upon betrayed you, soaked from your sated pussy.  I was very disappointed that your desires came before mine. Yet, for some reason, I feel the deep need for compassion here, and let you have what you wanted so desperately.”

He paused, leaning forward and flicking the buzzing vibe to high. She jerked in response to the sudden intensity, her head shaking back and forth, her mouth trying to say what sounded like ‘no’.

“The ball gag distorts your words so badly, my sweet horny slut. I’m sure you said ‘more’ right?”

Moving across the room to his toy chest, he removed a fat anal plug. She tried to see what he was doing, but another orgasm snatched thought from her mind as her body shimmied and jerked.

“Here you go, slut.”

He squirted lube over her pussy. It leaked downward, around the pressing head, making her contact with the device even more intense. When she felt the press of the plug against her ass, she knew that all that had transpired previously was just the warm up. She yelped as her butthole was filled, as he clicked the vibe on. The screeeeeetch of the duct tape roll he was fond of made her shake her head harder, but he ignored her again, and taped the ass vibe into her.

Two fingers slipped in and out of her cunt, making her moan. Felt so good to have him inside, but they moved out and away. He rubbed the juice of her fuck hole on her belly, slapping the soft, round skin there.

Again she arched, her body rocked by waves of pleasure, then waves of over-stimulation. So sensitive, she longed to scream out, but the gag held the pleading words inside her head.

“Aah. You must be so happy that you came again. Horny slut. What is that now? 10? 12? I’m afraid I’ve lost count. Oh.”

He tugged his phone from his pocket.

“I’m afraid I have to take this.  I’ll go into the kitchen so I won’t disturb your orgasms. The camera will record them for me so that I can watch them later. While I’m fucking your ass. I’ll be back in a while. No more than an hour, I think. Happy cumming, slut.”

With a wicked smile, he left the room, as she kicked and wriggled through another orgasm. From the hall she heard his ‘business voice’ as he took the call.

“Hello? Sure, hi. Oh, no not to worry. I wasn’t doing anything that I couldn’t interrupt.”

She came again, crying with the pleasure, and sobbing with the pain.

Perverted Pleasures (3)

If there were others serving in the house, she didn’t see them. After being walked down the sidewalk (two paces behind me, slut, he’d ordered, she remembered with the tang of embarrassment still fresh in her mind) bare-assed naked, and up a set of stone steps and into the big house, she’d expected a big crowd. A club of sorts.

But no.

It was just Master and Sir. She wondered what else would happen to her. Lust curled in her belly, knowing that she’d signed her fate when she’d desired this perverted vacation. She wanted to know what it was that she had been missing all these years when business came before pleasure.

Working her way around the foyer, she tried not to think about how much her knees were aching, how much her back hurt from scrubbing the marble floor with a toothbrush. It was almost impossible to ignore the deep and steady throb of her ass, which was still filled by the anal plug. Yet cleaning the floor this way did split her attention from some of her discomfort. It was such a lowly thing to do, and while she understood perfectly the mindset behind the chore, part of her seethed with impatience. When would she continue to be treated as she had in the car, as a wanton, usable slut?

“You missed a spot.”

She jumped a foot. So lost in her musings, she had been blinded to his approach.

“I’m sorry Sir,” she mumbled, eyes glued to the floor.

“Get that sorry ass over here and fix it.”

As she turned and crawled towards him, humiliation washed over her. Oh, to be treated like a maid. She who could have bought and sold this property ten times over–

A hard jerk on her leash made her choke.

“Pay attention slut. I don’t know where your mind is at, but when I’m here it must be on me.”

Giving the leash another hard tug, he used the free end to swat at her. The sting along her upper back was painful, but, she conceded, justified.

“I’m sorry Sir.”

“Head on the floor, curve your back and show me your cunt.”

The spot where he pointed was wet from her ministrations. Her forehead pressed against the soapy wet tile. She wasn’t happy about that; it was cold and smelled of cleaning solution. She hated for her skin to be touched by it. She remembered all the money she’d spent on face creams over the years. Fingers dipping into her displayed pussy broke her thoughts. Suddenly all her attention was focused on the sensations that his curling digits were causing.

“Don’t you even think about moving. No fucking, no begging. You’re here to be used–a vessel, holes, a cunt. You’re an ass and a mouth and pussy. All hot and wet and available to be used as we choose.”

His fingers slid free. Wiping her wetness on her back, he took up the leash.

“Follow me.”

“On my knees?”

He spared her a brief glance.

“You can walk–for now.”

She rose quickly in case he changed his mind, and followed the proper distance behind. She remembered something about her hands at the small of her back, and placed them there. She wanted to please him–please them both–and she wanted to be fucked.

Master sat on a chair in the middle of the room. His thickened cock had a slight curve to it.Sir brought her forward, looping the leash onto the raised finial on the back of the chair.

“Straddle me and sit on my cock.”

She did as she was bid, yet not as gracefully as she’d hoped. Her leg banged his erect cock, and a sharp slap and verbal admonishment to ‘be careful for fuck’s sake’ made her want to sink through the floor. Somehow she got herself sorted out until she was poised, her pussy lips parted by the flaring head below her.

“Sit. Do it slowly. I want to feel every inch of your cunt as you impale yourself.”

It was a tight fit. He was large, and her ass was still filled with the beast they’d shoved up there in the limo. Her clit rose and began to throb. Her nipples tingled and tightened . Breath came in short excited gasps as he filled her belly with his cock.

“Fuck me. Slow and easy. Up and down.”

It was easy at first. The excitement took her through the first strokes easily enough. Her thighs began to burn after a bit, her calves shook after a few more squats. Her pussy wanted it faster, but she kept to the same steady rhythm.

When his fingers grasped her nipples and pulled them down as she was lifting up, she came.

“There is no cumming without permission.”

Shivering with the shock of having an orgasm with virtually no warning, she opened her mouth to protest. Seeing the look on his face, she stopped herself from speaking. Eyes falling to his belly, she whispered her apology.

“Peter? Mr. Blue, I think.”

She wanted to look around and see who Mr. Blue was, but his arms came around her, hugging her body close to his. His cock was fully impaled, her legs shaking from the workout, as she straddled his lap. There was a tug against her ass, the stretching pain as the anal plug was removed.

She farted.

Loudly.

And cried out in shock and pain as the larger “Mr. Blue” filled her rectum.

Perverted Pleasures (2)

They hadn’t told her of the butt plug that awaited her in the limo, nor of the resounding, over-his-knee spanking that Master delivered as they pulled away from the curb. His hand was large and covered a huge amount of ass with every blow. He spanked hard, down her thighs, across her hips, up even to her back, the slaps echoing inside of her somehow.

It was as she lay there, across his lap, gasping through the tears, that she felt the probing against her pussy lips.

“She’s so fucking wet.”

“She’s a slut. She’s gonna be wet.”

“Good for her–lotta lube–the natural kind!”

The two chuckled a moment. The large hand pressed against the base of her neck, as his other slapped hard at the bottom of her butt. One slap, two, six. The same fucking spot over again. Nine, twelve slaps. Fifteen. Twenty one.

“How many was that, slut?”

“Twenty-one,” she spoke, the sob hitching in her voice.

“Ah.”

He struck again.

“I have a fondness for round bottoms, and round numbers,” he said with a laugh. “Proceed, Peter.”

There was pressure against her asshole. Though she tried to lift her head, Master’s hand was like an anchor, holding her in place. As the pressure grew, she tightened her anus.

“Fighting it.”

“Good enough. She’ll learn.”

“I’ll get the rubber mallet…”

“WHAT?!” she squeaked, her voice snaking around his shoelaces.

There was a sudden firm push and whatever he was doing landed deep inside her asshole.

“OH FUCK! That hurts! OUCH!”

“Stop fighting when he puts things in your ass, then.”

“It burns.”

“Does that when he uses toothpaste for lube. It’ll tingle for a while. Remember to not piss him off again, slut or he’ll slather it with icyhot gel…then you’ll really have an ass of pain.”

He tugged her up from his lap, and pressed her to the floor.

“Sit there. Yes, right there with your ass stuffed full of rubber. I know it hurts, doesn’t it?”

He handed her a bottle of water and picked up his phone. In a moment he was busy texting as she sat, ignored. A foot prodded her tit.

“My cock wants your mouth. Turn around.”

Sir’s limp cock hung between his splayed knees. Even flaccid it was big. She scooted forward, wincing at the fullness in her ass. It felt like she needed to take the biggest shit in her life. Her anus throbbed. Her lips encircled his shaft, sucking the head into her mouth, the thick head resting on her tongue.

“Right there. No…no sucking. Just hold it in your mouth and keep it warm and wet.”

His fingers reached down, grabbing her nipples and tugging as if to move her closer.

“No–don’t move. I want to see how far these babies will stretch.”

She moaned around his cock as he pulled slowly, firmly, steadily. It felt like he was trying to rip her tits off of her chest by her nipples. Yet she also felt like someone had set a match to her clit. The throb there was incredible. Her body was so alive!

“No cumming.”

The deep voice of her Master interrupted her introspection. She couldn’t really speak with a cock in her mouth, one growing steadily firmer.

“Wa Ma trr?”

She tried, but earned a cuff to her ear.

“No talking with my dick in your mouth, cunt!”

It was incredible, the connection between her nipples and her cunt, the way every jostle of the limo tugged her tits this way and that, adding to the ache that his fingers coaxed from them. It was incredible how wet she was, how much she wanted to suck. He was a stranger, but all normal “fears” had flown out the window. Here she was running on pure adrenaline.

The car slowed, then stopped. She didn’t move, hadn’t been instructed to move.

“You’ll need this.”

Master wrapped something heavy around her throat. The click of a hasp and the weight of leather leash let her know that he’d collared her, something that she’d looked forward to. While wearing his collar, he owned her fully. Lost in the rapture of giving her fate to another, she barely noticed what else was going on. Hands were busy on her body; it took a moment to realize that she was being stripped. Surely they didn’t mean to have her exit the car totally buck naked?

The wash of air as the door opened proved that they did.

 

 

Dancer- Evolution

remember that wee story that I started, and Will Crimson from Erotic Writers added a second piece too? You can find it here.  At the end of summer he *challenged* me to continue on with the tale (as did many of you readers!). He sent me this “starter bit”…rather like sourdough bread…you get the starter, make your bread with it, save the rest in the fridge, and there it grows, quietly in the back of your mind..er…fridge…until you’re ready to come back to it and create more. That’s what Will did to me…and between that and the two very erotic tales he’s posted recently, got me “kick-started” into writing once more. This first part is his…mine continues after the “*****” break… ~nilla~

After her cry, after the taking, exhausted on knees and cheek, the dark of sleep and more overcame her.

She awoke with a start. She had been carried to a desert tent. Her feet were tender. Her back was sore. Her legs were stiff. The place between her thighs was still wet and warmed by a man’s unction. She rose onto one elbow. She had been placed on a bed of rugs. A mellow morning light sifted through the flapping entry-cloth. The wind blew off and on, and the sound of the sand was the sound of the desert breathing.

Pillows had been placed under her head and under her knees. Her muscular legs had been left open – her breasts uncovered.

Her skin was silken with a sheen of oils. She had been massaged, her lips cleaned, and the cleft of her throat perfumed. Her hair had been braided with jade and onyx. Her nipples had been pierced and her clit also; but they had not dared to touch the fragrance deposited in her womb.

But there was something more.

She reached lower, between her legs, and felt a fullness in the entry to her bowels. She tenderly turned onto her hands and knees, reached behind her and groaning, withdrew a bone penis. The base had been carved into thick and rounded wings. Attached to the base of the carved penis was a jeweled chain and a small scroll bound by a golden chain and wax seal. Another jeweled chain fastened the bone penis to the piercing of her clit. She set the carved bone between her thighs.

She broke the wax seal and released the tiny scroll.

Allah be Praised. You belong to me now, treasure of treasures, gold of gold, gem of the desert and my oasis. I bring the moisture of my love, the silver of my nutmeg, to moisten your lips, your thighs and your cunt. Be ready for my return. I thirst for the nectar of your mouth, breasts and the mouth of your belly. Be ready, my graceful dancer, my gazelle, my cheetah. Part your muscular thighs. Let the pillows lift your knees. Be ready for your master. I hasten. My lips and loins are heavy with dew.

And then, because she could walk nowhere with the carved bone loosely attached to her clit, she closed her eyes, mouth opening, as she pushed.

***************************************************

It was done. She lay, gasping, at the return of fullness to her bottom. A strange warmth moved through her lower body. The throb of her pierced womanhood was echoed by the steady throb of her stretched anus. The chain that connected the bone shaft to her clit lay against her lower lips, a teasing whisper of touch.

She didn’t want to wait for him. She didn’t want to want him, this powerful desert man. Sheikh or no, he was a man, and she wanted to belong only to herself. The thick carved penis in her bottom reminded her that she had made a choice.

Laying on the carpets, pillows under her knees, she stretched. The best cure for aching limbs was work, her dance teacher had always said. Her toes curled, then arched. Her ankles rotated, her thighs and buttocks were eased this way and that. Her arms rose over her head, fingers stretching far, then clenching. For a moment she was in her studio at the barre, arching over her lifted leg. A single tear leaked from beneath her closed lid. Turning cautiously, she rose to hands and knees, arching her back. Catlike, she practiced the yoga moves that helped keep her back flexible, her hips open.

“Praise Allah!”

The deep voice behind her was filled with reverence.

“It is a wondrous sight to behold, my sweet concubine making herself ready for me!”

“I’m not.”

Her voice was dry. She couldn’t, wouldn’t be nice to him. She was from fucking New York city, and she had a reputation for dealing with overly enthusiastic fans quickly, rudely–

Rough palms slid over her oil-slicked skin, pressed the hilt of the sword that impaled her dark moon. A moan slid from her lips as his fingers followed the curved hollow to the deep rose entrance.

“The sunrise hues that guild your cleft are beauty beyond compare,” he murmured. The press of his hands moved to her hips, pressing her forward, down, until her head rested on the vivid rug below her. Her bottom rose higher, the soft curve at the base of her back an enticing and inviting curl.  Her body begged to be caressed, to be admired, to be taken.

He stepped away, his footfalls silent on the thick rugs of the tent. The wind flapped the lower edge of the tent; she watched the fabric balloon and ripple. In moments he was back, kneeling beside her. His fingers glided over her mouth, her lips parted, tasting herself there. He pressed another thick, carved phallus into her mouth, this one shorter, wider than the one between her bottom cheeks. Tapping her cheek, he rose. She took that to mean to not remove the item he’d placed there. Against all imaginings, she obeyed, wondering what would happen next. His finger slid from the nape of her neck, tracing the line of her body. Palms smoothed over the curves of her ass, the sides of her thighs, over the soles of her feet. It would seem that he was accepting the invitation implicit in her posture.

 

A Jibe at Master — Payback’s a Bitch!

Last weekend we were anticipating snow here. It was starting as I drove home from work, talking to Him on the phone.

“Has it started down your way yet, Master?”

“OH, only about three, three and a half feet, nilla.”

“I didn’t ask how tall you were, Master. I asked how much snow you’d gotten.”

*dead silence*

I held my breath…

and then

He laughed.

Laughed like crazy.

“Good one, slut, verrrry good.”

He repeats the little exchange to me.

“You know that will cost you when next we meet behind closed doors.”

“Not if you forget.”

He repeats it back to me, again. A strategy I recognize as I do it myself. He’s locking that sucker into his long-term memory.

Additionally, there’s been a sudden upsurge in half-O’s, those nasty little fuck-gasms…where I can masturbate almost until I cum…

and then must stop.

On a fuckin’ dime.

No oops…

just denial, torture, torment.

I have 12 fucking o’s in the O-Bank..and am forbidden to use them on a Half-O night. So he can enjoy the full use of my torture.

And he’s added a butt plug to the half-O this time, which I hate.

And, yanno. Love.

Coz I’m just that contrary a cunt.

It hurts, oh, okay…it’s a discomfort and not a true hurt…but it also very much ratchets up the turn-on factor for me.

It’s a win-lose (which makes it a win win in that oh so confusing submissive masochistic way) for me, and a win-WIN for Him.

I also text Him (required) immediately after the supreme frustration of stopping. Immediately. He LOVES it when I swear and piss and moan and crab about Him being an asshole.

See? I’m not the only perverted one playing this game.

It takes two to tango…and two to tangle.

And we’re really really tangled.

 

Alone

The roar of her vacuum was surpassed by the song pouring into her earbuds. Singing along to her favorite oldies, she swayed and hip-bumped her way around the classroom. Friday night, and the kids must have had some extra fun today, as there was glitter everywhere. It felt like she’d never get all the sparkles out of the carpet; she knew her boss didn’t expect perfection, but she did. At long last the bulk of the rug was clean if not totally sparkle-free. Unplugging the machine, she wound the cord, still singing to the music pulsing in her ears. The long corridor leading back to the maintenance closet was semi-dark. She had turned off every other light on her way in; she didn’t mind working in the half-light. She did popped the lights on to see while she worked in an area, then popped them off again when done. The principal like that she was saving energy.

Next on her agenda was washing the floors. Three bathrooms and a classroom needed a good scrub, then she would be done for the night.

She didn’t need the light on in here,  in what she privately thought of as her ‘office’.  She knew exactly where every one of her tools went. Stepping into the room, she shut the door. Right next to the wall studs, she slotted the machine into its proper place, then turned to head to the closet across the hall, where her wash bucket was.

The arms came around her before she could open the door, one hand covering her mouth. Fingers tugged a bud out of her ear.

“Sssshhh. It’ll be fast. Hard, deep, rough…but fast.” The voice was guttural, rough.

In one ear blasted the tune where someone was rocking the night away, in the other, the sibilant whisper that sent whimpers through her nose.

“Open your mouth.”

She shook her head, but he held her nose until she gasped for breath. Something was stuffed into her mouth, wedged deep so she couldn’t spit it out.

“My undies make a nice gag. I had beans for lunch so I farted in them a lot, and there might be a skid or two there, but you know how it is. Gags are expensive and undies…are handy. Especially since I won’t need to wear them while I’m fucking you.”

Shaking her head didn’t dislodge them. She felt bile rising, and by sheer dint of will, pushed it down.

“This will hold you.”

She heard a funny sound, a thunk, and realized that he’d slid her extra long vacuum cord off its hook. In the moment or two it had taken to figure it out, she shook herself. ‘Run, you moron!’ she shouted to herself in her head. A step, two, to the door. Fumbling for the door, the handle slid out of her fingers, then pulled open. A step into the corridor and moments from the stairs, his arms came around her again, tugging her back into her closet.

“Naughty girl.”

The cord was wound around her hands, half-way to her elbows, then looped over a nail behind the door, where her broom usually hung.  His hands worked quickly at her jeans. The cool breeze of the room on her ass was shocking. She was hot, burning with fear-fever. The first swat of something on her thigh made her knees give out, but the cord held her.

“Bad girls get a beating.”

It was unclear what he was hitting her with but it hurt like hell. In her minds eye, she pictured her closet. It had to be the thin dowel she used on the high windows for catching cobwebs. Her thighs bore the brunt of the blows. She would have screamed, may have screamed as he beat his way up and down the back of each leg. The last few blows fell where her ass and legs met, an especially tender spot. For a moment, there was nothing. She breathed hard through her nose, trying to slow her erratically pounding heart. Hurt. Hurt so fucking much. Maybe he would go now, though a quiet corner of her mind wondered why he’d only hit her legs.

He stepped close, she felt the heat of him behind her. As if he could read her mind, he spoke.

“I’m saving your ass for something special.”

She felt his dick probing her. His hands on her hips, tugging her back, impaling her on his shaft. It was rough, his entry into her cunt, yet she felt her moisture slicking his strokes. Her clit trembled.

Hands snaked up from her hips, up under the plain white tee she favored for work. Her bra was tugged up, her breasts falling free. Fingers grabbed, pawing at the bouncing flesh, pinching her tender nipples.

She came hard, her cunt clamping down on his probing cock.

His hips moved fast, piston-quick, boring into her deepest belly with quick, hard thrusts. His fingers coiled tight on her tits as he paused, hip-thrusted deep, as deep as he could fill her, as he exploded.

Shockwaves echoed through her as he pulled out, the sound wet and sucking.

He moved to the side, one arm looping around her waist. Fingers probed at her pussy, scooping wetness and pushing it into her ass. Her mumbled words were incoherent, but obviously was not a beg for more of the dark caress. Yet his fingers continued to work around her puckered butthole.

Something cold and hard pressed steadily into her bottom. It grew wider, wider, stretching her ass and making her squeal behind the gag. He pushed until she felt something tickling her ass cheeks.

“You look like a little bunny, with your dust wiper shove up your shithole. You keep that in there now.”

His laugh was dark, mean. As if she could shit out the long length of the handle. A handle that fit nicely in her hand, but was far less than comfortable in her ass. He tugged something over her head. One of her heavy-duty black trash bags. She panicked, but he didn’t tighten it, just left it there.

“That bag won’t impede your breathing if you don’t struggle too much. Now I’m going to spank you.”

He stepped away.  She heard the snap of the light switch, saw her jeans gathered around her feet, saw the floor, but that was all. No one would see him. There were no windows in here, no one left at school to notice that she hadn’t washed the floors. She’d told her family to expect her late tonight as Fridays always took extra cleaning time.

The bag muffled sounds, distorted them with the crinkle of plastic. The one earbud blared out a rock anthem from the 70’s. The first swat of a belt on her bare bottom came as a shock. Her body jolted. It was apparent that he was holding nothing back.

Burning.

Aching.

Fire. Her ass was on fire. Her asshole throbbed. She’d cum several times, her juices leaking down her thighs. There was no sense of how long he had beat her ass.  She was dizzy from an inadequate air supply, from cumming so hard. He’d turned her once, pressing against the plastic and kissing her through it, making each breath she attempted to draw an agony of fear.

And he’d fucked her again. Hard, with the dusting wand  still buried deeply in her ass.  She’d cum then, too.

“Fucking whore,” he’d said.

“Needy greedy sluthole” he called her.

He’d uncoiled the cord from her hands, wrapped it around her throat, holding her breath hostage.

Her heart pounded in her ear, the one not listening to ‘oh what a night it was’.  Beyond, was that the slam of the outer door? She grabbed for the cord, pulling and tugging it from around her, tearing at the bag to get it off her head before she blacked out. OUT came the horrid underwear he’d gagged her with.

Carefully, she pulled the duster from her backside, and threw that in the trash. The handle was flecked with shit, the fluffy side was wet with cum. She’d never look at one again without remembering this.

She ran to her closet, filled her mouth with water, rinsing, rinsing, clearing the taste of his poo, the salty tang of his pee-speckled underwear from her tongue. Saw her mop bucket ready. Resigned, she filled it with hot soapy water.  Still shaking, she mopped the floors. Responsibility was too ingrained to just leave them undone. People counted on her to make sure the building was clean and sparkling for classes on Monday. The throbbing in her bottom moved in time to the scrub-scrub-scrub of her mop.

**************************************

Her kids kissed her and hugged her goodnight as her husband shepherded them into bed. She was bone weary, on the verge of tears. She wanted a shower. Stripping off her clothing as she closed the door to their bedroom, she moved into their bathroom and flicked on the water. Hot. She needed the heat to quell the shivers that seemed to come from her pussy, making her tremble. Dumping her soiled jeans, her tee-shirt, her underwear into the hamper, she stepped quickly into the hot stream. It poured over her, through her hair, over her face, down her aching tits, over her welted bottom.

“I’m coming in!”

Before she could stop him, her husband stepped in behind her.

“Babe?”

She turned, blinking water, and perhaps some secret tears,  away.

“I thought you might need a new one. But for now, I can use it to scrub your back. Or your front. Or….fuck you with it….”

He held up the twin to her school duster, waving it back and forth in front of her face, before turning it shaft up and making a “shoving it up” gesture. Her eyes widened, her mouth opened in a O before “bastard!” spurted from her lips.

He laughed as she tried to punch him.

 

The Pains of Taking Master for Granted

Yanno, I’m the kind of girl who usually appreciates the things around her. I love the slant of sunlight through the golden leaves outside my window. I notice the sound of the birds passing overhead, a flock of geese winging their way south. I appreciate the bright blue of the sky as the gray clouds melt away.

But sometimes–I presume. And primarily?  It happens in my relationship with Master. (Ironically, I tend to NOT do so in my vanilla relationships…perhaps because I have little expectation that my needs will be met there, anyway? But back to Master….)

I try to not “read into” the fact that He doesn’t respond right away to emails or texts. I try not to presume that I’m being ‘ignored’. It’s easy for me to fall into the habit, you see. That, if I don’t get feedback, I slack off on doing a required task. As many of you have said…if they (the Big D’s) don’t give reward or punishment, what is the purpose of something? Where is the payoff? What is it to us?

*sigh*

Rereading that last paragraph–it  sounds like there is an “expectation”…

And I know–down deep inside,  that He will “feed” me, that He knows exactly what I need, and how to dole it out to fulfill me.

And I know that He is just as capable of putting me in a little compartment and forgetting me while He is off doing His other stuff.

And I–well–here’s the thing.

I’m an attention whore.

I think that in all honesty, we all kind of are. We want our Dominants to notice us. Are we being good and need a treat? Are we in trouble and need a hand to set us to rights? Are we being snarky and in need of correction?

I like to think I’m pretty low maintenance. I do like a text a few times a day to know that He is okay. And to check in. Not so much for attention as for connection. We can’t touch IRL most days…and the touch of a text has become a substitute for His hand brushing down my hair, or poking at me.

I take for granted that He will respond to me.

I take for granted that He will always be there…and sometimes get pissy if there is a long lag. Sometimes it is a pissyness born of an innate fear of losing Him. We are, after all, far apart, and I wouldn’t know right away if He was in an accident or injured…

That’s the love/caring part, for me at any rate. I do it with my vanilla family, too. Checking on them, checking in, reaching out. It’s what I do.

I connect.

And then there are those rules.

I have very few.

Ask permission before taking an Orgasm.

Send a morning and evening text.

Write a report of the Orgasm the next day, due sometime before bedtime (He’s lenient of this because my schedule is often crazy, but only to the extent of the hour it must be done–it is always due before the end of the next day…)

That’s pretty much it.

But then — I dunno. It’s not very flattering to say this, but I guess I figured…what the hell.

He doesn’t always reply to them (the O reports).

Maybe He’s not even *reading* them.

Why bother.

*cringe*

yeah.

I said it out loud.

“Why bother…”

In fairness, sometimes I am forgetful. I live off my auxiliary brain, often (my large white board)…if it’s not on there, I may well forget. It’s the price I pay for juggling multiple jobs, multiple kids, multiple events.

But an O report has been part of our dynamic for forever.

“why bother”…

oh my.

Why, indeed.

This isn’t a vanilla relationship, where I get to pick and choose what I do and don’t do. I have to accept…to…submit…to doing as He says. While I’m not a slave, I’m definitely subservient to Him…and it’s always been that way.

So why balk now?

Tired.

Depressed.

Lonely.

They all play a role. They all are a part of my internal dynamic. Despite being surrounded by people, I’m often very lonely. It’s been weeks since I managed get away time with Him, and I’m borrowing sadness from the future, when my son goes to college and I don’t have the excuse of being his taxi to arrange hook ups with Master.

Those face time events are really important to me. Necessary. And yes, I’m letting my tomorrow worries take away from my today happiness. *sigh*

If I’m submitting, then I’m giving Him all of me.

Then I’m going to do what He asks of me.

This — this need to give over to another, to hand Him my life and say “do with me what You will”–this was not a light, frivolous decision. I’d been dreaming of this for a year, before ever dabbling my toe in the water of submission.

He is perfect for me, even if He isn’t always perfect (He’ll smack me for that one!)…just as I believe that I’m perfect for Him, despite my lack of  being a perfect submissive.

You all know my stance on “perfection” anyway, right? There is no such critter. Perfection is a pipe dream, a seeking that it totally unattainable, and therefore, stupid. 🙂 Yes. Stupid to seek perfection. There is only the “perfection of now”–since we are all in a constant state of evolution and change. We experience, and we grow and adapt through those experiences.

Submission is not about perfection. It is about intent. It is about supplanting my wants for His. It is about…giving Him the all of me…even the not-so-pretty parts. The annoyance, the frustration, the fears I have. They’re just as much a part of me as the listening, creative, giggly slut.

I’ve learned a very valuable lesson at His direction last night. Following the rules is much better than the punishments He can create.

The text that He sent me was simple, direct and to the point.

Anal plug (the larger of the two that I have). Clothespins on my belly. Clamps on my nipples. Get as close to an orgasm without actually having one (and I’ve damn near perfected the timing on them, so it causes total wracking agony to stop…yet stop I do. I’m proud to say I’ve never had an “oops” and spilled over that fragile edge.)

I didn’t want to do it.

dreaded  doing it. The second night of a “half-orgasm” is so much worse than the first night. Add in an anal plug, which turns me on despite the discomfort, and all the other pain-points? And I’m torn between pain…and the pleasure of enduring it for Him. Ohmahgawd, the pain of taking Master for granted, in full, living Technicolor, writhing in my bed.

Add in a vibe on the clit?

Torture.

It hurts.

It hurts so damn good. Pain, wrapped in pleasure. Desire, warring with the need to not get carried away. The need to “pay attention, slut”…”

And isn’t that the full lesson here?

I need to pay attention.

Because for real?

He does.

Q & A ~ and a story, too! (Don’t)

Thanks to faithful who asked a question:

is your Master married? Has he ever been?

Just so you all know, I have asked for and received permission to answer that.

Yes, Master was married, for a long time. He was divorced for 3 years when we met. There is no other woman in his life. He would tell you there is “no woman” in his life at all, just a pesky slut! It is a prime insult when He tells me I am being “womanish”. But that’s a whole other topic, right? *grin*

Thanks for asking us, faithful. And if anyone else has a question for Q & A month, there’s still time to ask me.  Don’t be shy. If you’re too personal I’ll tell you to fuck off.

*pauses for effect*

*giggle*

I won’t! I really won’t.

Okay. Maybe I would. But you guys know I am pretty much an open book, right? So…ask away. I promise to not bite you. How’s that for fair? *Laughing*

Okay, I’m feeling so. Much. Better. I wrote THREE stories today. I’m giddy with the happy of that. Get comfy, and enjoy the first one;

Don’t

She wanted to swallow the word.

Really wanted to pull it back, reverse time, suck the word back into her stupid mouth. He stared at her. His mouth wasn’t agape, but it may as well have been. It would be hard to imagine which of them was more shocked by the “don’t” that had slipped off her tongue, landing in the space between them like a black hole of doom.

“I…”

“Enough.”

He took a fistful of hair and pulled her to the corner. Whimpering, she put her face against the wall. She knew that being silent was her only hope at this point.

He used corner time as much to cool down his impressive temper as to teach her a lesson. They’d worked out much during their time together, but her mouth was still her worst enemy.

She felt him behind her, then the cold moistness of his finger pressing against her anus.

He was going to put the plug in anyway. “You’ve given me a wonderful idea, slut. I need a bit of time to set up, and then I’ll be back to collect you. Until then, hold onto this for me.”

She felt the pressure against her butthole, then the pop, as a bead went into her ass. Oh fuck! Each bead was bigger than the last. She wondered which one he’d stop at. They’d never made it past the third one.

Two.

He pressed hard and the third bead popped inside her. It felt like a fucking plum inserted in her ass! She whimpered again, shuddering as he pressed upwards.

“Take it. Stop fighting it, press down like you’re taking a shit.”

She didn’t want it. Didn’t. In her head she was whining “don’t, please don’t.” She knew it was her hangup and not any fear of true damage. He would hurt her, but never harm. She had such anal fear. It had become his challenge to break through the fear and into something better for them both. He took her to dark places at times, her Sir.

With one last hard push the fourth anal bead was up inside her rectum. She couldn’t stop the small moan of pain. He swatted her ass, a silent message to be a good girl and get over it. Not that he minded her tears, he’d told her many times.  Those glistening silver drops were like nectar to him, he’d said, licking a tear off her cheek. That had irked her…and turned her the fuck on. That she had so little control over his desires was one of the key reasons she embraced being a submissive in the first place.

She heard him rummage in the toybox, then his receding footfalls. She wondered what the fuck he was doing. Torn between curiosity and worry, she almost forgot about the beads in her butt.

The sound of his return made fear and lust coil in her belly.

He turned her around, and immediately clamped her nipples. The clamps were the thick heavy pair. They bit tight and made her cry. He usually liked to stick them right on the edge of her nipple so that any movement would make them pop off.

Which always felt like her nipple had been torn off.

This time the rubber teeth gripped tightly over her full nipples. It was painful, and set her clit to throbbing gently. She loved having her nipples clamped during sex play. The heavy chain swung between her tits like a silver smile. Hooking it in his finger, he pulled her out of the bedroom, down the hall, and into his office. Leading her to the far wall, he bid her to stay and not to fucking move.

She stared at the hook where he usually hung his suit coat when he was working in here. She wanted to turn around but she was already down for one huge mistake. Disobeying a direct order would get her ass whalloped for sure. She could hear something scraping on the floor behind her, and the curiosity was eating at her.

What the fuck was he doing?

“Up on your tiptoes.” His finger hooked into the chain, lifting it up and over the hook on the wall.

“Hands behind your back.” She didn’t want to. Didn’t want to give up that last bit of control, yet her hands settled at the small of her back almost without thought. She felt the roughness of the velcro against her skin as he wrapped the bondage wrap around her wrists.

She cried out as he tugged the anal beads from her ass. They hurt a lot more coming out!  In seconds, she felt something even bigger replace them.

“This is quite the predicament for you, slut. If you settle back onto your feet to give them a break, you’ll push more inches of this big rubber dick up your ass. You remember Fat Freddie…you had quite the giggles about it when I ordered it.”

She swallowed hard. She did indeed remember the dildo she’d nicknamed Fat Freddie. It looked like a man’s hand, ready to fist. He’d told her that someday that dildo would be in her ass or her pussy as he fucked her, double stuffing her.

“Of course, you’ll also increase the pull of the clamps. Eventually they will pull off of your nipples, and we both know how much you enjoy that, don’t we, slut?”

She shook her head. She did not like that, not at all. He laughed. The bastard. Her feet cramped and she lowered just a bit. Since he’d stuffed the first few inches in her ass, it didn’t seem that bad. Apparently she’d forgotten how wide the fucking dildo got. The pain in her tits and ass grew exponentially. She rose back to her tiptoes. The relief to her nipples and ass was compounded by the ache growing in her toes.

Oh fuck!

His hand reached around and she caught the flicker of movement, seconds before the vibrating massager pressed against her clit.

“Are we having fun yet, bad slut? Don’t tell me you’re not…” His voice tickled her ear.

Oh fuck, oh fuck! Yet, wisely, she chose not to answer.

Life Stuff aka Good Thing?Bad Thing?

It’s Friday as i write this.

Black Friday.

Which pretty much sums  up my mood for the last several days.

Thanksgiving…ah. Well, glad it’s over this year.

So …the afternoon before Thanksgiving i find out that Master and i can’t meet today.  And i’m bummed, and how the hell can i show it?

And then my sister showed up, early. Not to help, nope. She just sat. And talked. And talked. And talked.  i try to stuff the annoyance down, and then…well…you know how that goes. Not really” stuffed away”, and when people finally got under my skin, i became a snarky bitch.

But i knew a great deal of it came from the frustration of not getting to be with Master. And honestly? My family drives me nuts at times. Everyone talks nonstop. No quiet. No recharge time. It makes me insane. I like a bit of quiet now and again. And if i leave the room, they fucking follow me.

If it was important stuff, fine. But why the fuck do i care about a funny facebook story about people i don’t know? Or about tv stars. My sis is obsessed with tv, and quotes lines from shows from our youth; an avid reader of People Magazine, and all the rest of those holly wood rags.

Sorry if that sounds elitist, and i’ve nothing against them per se. But for gosh sakes, be able to carry on a conversation about more than who is dating whom in Hollywood.

Again…why the fuck to do i care?

So i was cranky. And yoga helped, though i was accused of being snarky when i got home…because they (wife, sis) started yakking the second i came in the house.

Like..Oh. My. Fucking. GAWD…do you people ever shut the fuck up??

So i texted Master through the afternoon, easing out of snarky bitch mode, and into sub mode from time to time. And we had a nice long chat on my drive back home from yoga.

And i got a “freestyle” orgasm from Master because He’s not happy about the change in date either.

We eased into Thanksgiving, and the day itself was okay. Once i give up voicing opinions, and just do what wife wants, things flow (has a familiar ring to it, doesn’t it?) a bit smoother. Got the food prepped and the rest of the family shows up and the meal is happy and funny and good.

We eat early as my dad likes to hit the road before full dark falls. So by early evening, everyone is gone, things calm down, and the kids and wife and i sit and watch a Christmas special (ice age) together. They were thrilled to stay up late, and i was happy to just sit and not have anyone needing me for 30 minutes!

And now my family is off to visit the MIL today, and wife suggested i stay home. It was a nice gesture (at last), since i’ve been dealing with a sinus/ear infection all week. And that way she and my MIL can talk about me without my being there. *smiles* Such is life.

The house is blessedly quiet.

I’ve gotten vanilla chores done which is a great feeling, and it’s almost time for lunch.

OH, i forgot the part about the text last night. The Man had gone to bed, and i was up and angsty and SENT him a text …sigh. I guess He needs the bad with the good, and He replied this morning that we needed to talk about my latest round of insecurity.

And really, after a good nights sleep, i was feeling much better.

And he texted me this morning and said He was free to talk, and to call Him.

What a delightful treat. And we chatted for a few minutes, and He got the feel of me, digging into the heart of my upset (which wasn’t about Him at all), and pushing it out of me.

And then He  had me laughing.

“Good, you’re better now, aren’t you, slut?”

And of course, i was. Hadn’t realized how much i needed Him, just that touch in my ear of Him.

He asked about the rest of my day, joking about “cindernilla” chore, as He references my life sometimes. And i did have one ‘cn’ chore to get done, but it was almost done when we talked.

And i told Him that i was going to spend a big chunk of the afternoon writing in the peace of my house.

“Oh, good.” He says.

“Get your small buttplug and wear it while you write.”

*silence*

And then i giggle. In what other place and time could i be so totally “healed” and loved and cared for than this one? Where wearing an ass-plug reconnects me to my submission, allows me to fall into that still, quiet place inside, and serve?

And really, isn’t this the best place to be?

*smiles*

**addendum**

i never did get to write. The cindernilla chore took waaay longer than anticipated, and then that led to another project, and another. You know how that goes sometimes.

But it was quiet and nice.

Talking to the Man later that night, He asked if i’d written at all during the day.

“no, Master, i didn’t.”

“So, no ass plug.” (This is a statement, spoken in that true deadpan way He has at times.  i can almost hear Him thinking.)

“no Master, no plug”

“Ah.”

Long pause.

“Are you writing tonight?”

“yes Master. Do i still need the plug?” i ask hopefully.

“Did you think you were going to avoid it by writing later in the evening?”

“no, not at all Master. You said to wear the plug if i wrote during the day.”

“Is it still today, nilla?”

“um. yes Master, it’s still today.”

“Then what do you think? Of course you need the ass plug. If you write now. Or, since I’m thinking of it, if you write at midnight, or wake up with a good story at 2 a.m., or up to 7 a.m. Does that cover it for you, little girl?”

“Yes Master.”

And indeed it did. Wrote my novel, and the bulk of this post with that plug firmly entrenched.

And just for the record…i was NOT trying to avoid the plug.

Actually, i kinda like it.

But don’t tell Him i said that!