He was hungry for me (and I have the bite marks on my ass to prove it! ) I could hear it in his voice on the phone, and  again when we were in the parking lot before we went up to the room. There was a tenderness in that public venue, that is a reflection of our day-to-day conversations and texts. He kisses me gently, his hands cupping my elbows in the tenderest way.

But once the door closes on the outside world?

Everything changes. He does. I do, and the situation does.

It’s funny to me, really. Because just days before I was wondering if this was it, our last hurrah. I’d say something like ‘it’s been a great 8 years but…I’m not really into being beaten and submitting anymore.”



He touches me and I become a fucking geyser of want. Liquid drips down my inner thighs. When he grabs a hank of hair and spins me around, I swear I almost drool. Oh it hurts, yes indeed. I was yelping and whining and crying with the best of ’em there.

Muttering about how much it hurts to get to the good part.

He did chuckle at that. And then went back to pinching and biting my ass. Oh yeah, it hurt. And oh my, it turned me on so much. I came at least twice from the hitting. Not giant gushers, but the kind that just slicks everything down.

He touches me, cups my vulva with his hand, feels my wetness.

“You cunt,” he says. “You’re so fucking wet!”

His fingers slip into my cunt and ass, twirling and fucking. I cum in his hand. He laughs again, calls me a whore, a dirty little pain whore.

I eat it up, those words. I wonder, later, how I could have ever sloughed off this…this need inside of me. It’s part of me. Knit into my DNA. I don’t have to explain it to need it. I don’t have to have a psych profile to understand it. I just want it, and that’s okay. It’s okay to want. To crave. To need.

It is a weird thing, this lifestyle choice. But it’s also uniquely awesome in a way nothing else touches.

And yes. I’m hungry for more.

Tied into Submission

I –for all that I want it–haven’t been very submissive. We talk like friends, he and I, with laughter and teasing. We’re not in a rut, but both of us realize that the tasking and rules of times gone by don’t seem to be a part of our current dynamic.

It’s fine, really. I’m busy. He’s busy.

But it leaves me feeling nervous for playtime. Can I submit? Do I want to submit? Do I want the pain? Can I take it? This, after 8 1/2 years. *wry grin* Yeah. Still to question if I can.

But he is wise in the ways of nilla, and circumvents all that. He physically overpowers me, first off. He uses that tone of voice, and there is nothing I can do but obey. (And yes, he’s not asking me to kill someone in the next room…I’m talking playime here, not falling into the throws of Stockholm syndrome!) He touches me, sometimes softly, sometimes harshly and I hold my breath waiting for which it will be.

He cuffs my wrists to my thighs, then later rigs this system where I am further secured to crossed lines in the middle of the bed. I literally can. Not. Move. My legs won’t fully close, my hands are useless, and I’m existing only for his pleasure.

When he notes this he is quite pleased with himself, and sets to pinching my ass and swatting it. He uses his hands and that blasted olive wood spoon I gave him. It hurts and I’m whimpering and humping my ass up and down the 2 inches it’ll move…and he laughs.

I can’t get away.

I *must* submit to him, to whatever he’s got planned in his devious mind. I come a million times. He finger fucks me, and torments with my Hitachi. (OMFG, OMFG). I whimper and cry and beg.

He ignores me.

(Maybe he laughs, too. I can’t remember huge chunks of that time, other than the Hitachi and orgasms and trying to breathe.)

And I realize, as I lay there unable to defend myself, unable to stop him, that while he forced my submission, I am now wholeheartedly giving it up to him.

Take me.

Fuck me.

Use me.

Hurt me.

Until I’m floating, I’m happy, I’m hurting.

By taking my body, he has freed my mind.



Squeeze (6)

The blindfold surprised her. Sir never used them, so she had to imagine that it was something Sir K had implemented. Hands parted her shirt baring her chest to their gazes, exposing her skin to the soft kiss of air, and the firmer touch of the hands of men. Her breasts were fondled, warm hands lifting and softly squeezing the soft round flesh. Her nipples were flicked, not pinched as she might have supposed. The sash covering her eyes brought her to a new level of erotic suspense. With no way to anticipate she could only be fully in the moment.

Fucking zen,  she thought to herself, knowing she meant it literally and figuratively.

A large X was scratched over her right nipple. A frisson of raw need shot right to her clit. As she shivered in reaction, her shirt was pushed gently downward, slipping off her shoulders, until it fell from her wrists.


The first word spoken from either man in some minutes; she blushed in response. Her body was far from perfect. Just at this moment, however, she felt special, adored even.

A finger trailed down the center of her back, the teasing tickle making her giggle and shiver to move away.

“Uh huh…no moving unless you’re told to, slut.”

That was Sir for certain. His hand around her throat was warning enough. She hated being tickled but he enjoyed it. She endured. Another feather-light touch, right there at that sweetly sensitive place where her arm joined her back. Again she jolted, but stopped herself before her foot moved.

“Good girl.”

They played the gentle touching game until her skin was almost twitching. Nipples beaded tightly, her cunt dripping, she moaned when something pinched down on the tender nub.

“Isn’t that pretty, those shiny clamps on those nipples? How does that feel, slut? Too tight?”

She shook her head, no. They were not too tight. But a tight clenching was gathering elsewhere.



“I–I need to cum.  I really, really need to. Please Sir?”


“What do you think, Ken? Should we give the slut a release?”

Though she strained to hear even the faintest whisper there was only the sound of silence. She thought she could feel warmth in front of her, but was that just her body reacting to stimulation?

Fingers probed between her legs, answering that question. There was definitely a man in front of her. Questing roughly, a nail scraped over her swollen clit and she cried out. Thrusting deeper, slipping into the heated wetness of her cunt, she felt her knees trembling. They curled, those clever fingers, tugging and rubbing the soft spongy center of her. Her arms flew out, seeking support, as her pussy spasmed, as the familiar itchy ache trembled inside her belly.


She barely got the words out, heard his reply of “cum, now, right NOW,” as the orgasm rocketed through her. Dizzy, drained, flying high, she barely registered being lifted, until her back rested upon the chill of the table.

She lay for a moment, stunned, before feeling hands on her wrists, her ankles, the roughness of rope pulling her open, fully displaying her for them both. She felt the skirt bunched up like a belt around her waist. A moment later, she recalled just exactly where her panties were. The flush of being so wantonly displayed vied with a feeling of depraved submission. She could not stop them. She could only accept, could only take whatever they dished out.

“Time for ice cream!”

It could have been a minute, it could have been a second. A splat as something fell onto her belly. Another second before the slippery cold mass registered as fucking cold.  Another second before another splat hit. She whimpered. Shivered. Cried out as each blop of ice cream created an island of ice on her body.

“Here comes more fun…more fun that wax, even.”

A trail of something hot enough to sting, to make her tug at the ropes binding her wrists, poured down her body. Her breasts were splashed with it, her belly sang a song of pain. Her cunt quivered at the mixed sense of what was hot, what was cold. It hurt, the cold cream, the hot sauce.

The smell of chocolate filled her senses, until he began to pour it over and down her cunt lips.

“Ah, that got a reaction from you!”

A hissing sound came near her ear.

“Open your mouth.”

She obeyed, garnering a mouthful of whipped cream. He moved it in drunken path over and around her tits, the cool soothing after the heat of the chocolate. He pushed the nozzle into her cunt, and pressed.

“Different kind of cream. Still gonna eat it up.”

Hot lips settled over her cunt, sucking, biting lapping. Another mouth settled over her right tit, lapping over the clamped nipple, biting the tender skin.

“You will cum for me,” said Sir K from down between her thighs. His tongue drove into her, curling into a straw and sucking deeply. His fingers played her, until she was helpless to do anything but shudder through orgasm after orgasm.

Oh, the torture.