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Ten Hut! – 100 Orgasms

♦ “Close your eyes,” I said and he did. He lay back on the bed and shut them firmly, anticipating, always eager to obey when he knew I had something planned. I did have something planned, even if that plan had come together in the space of five minutes in the next room, rooting through The Drawers for kink and kit.

We’re having our housewarming this weekend and it’s fancy dress, because fancy dress is fucking fantastic. I’ve been making a military beret for mine and something clicked in my head when I saw it lying there, discarded. I’d been thinking lacy and stockings, but now…

I shut the door behind me and straddled him at the hips.  When I allowed him to open his eyes he saw me dressed in the green beret and a very military-like khaki jumpsuit buttoned to the collarbone. I carried a crop under my arm, swagger stick style. I swear his eyes almost bulged from his head.

He was dressed only in his trousers and he looked beautiful. I’d already been impressed earlier that day by how gorgeous his arms looked: swimmer’s muscles, lean and lithe but strong.

You’ll have to forgive me. I may say it myself, but what he said to me and what I said to him and the roleplaying was so fucking hot. But I forget. My waves of orgasms are too good at wiping out the coastal villages of my memory. The details merge, the lines become brush strokes of eroticism on an Impressionist painting.

So, yeah, I forget stuff.

But the night was swimming with “Yes, Ma’am”s and permission asked and occasional cheek given. I enjoyed ordering him around and domming shit up and punishing insubordination where I found it, rewarding good behaviour too.

I unbuttoned the top of the khaki jumpsuit to show my breasts, naked but for a fishnet bodystocking and, supporting them, an almost Steampunk “bra belt”. My nipples poked through the black fishnet and I leant in towards his face. He sucked on my left nipple with ardour and I gasped and ground into his body beneath me.

Before I knew it, I was surprising myself with an orgasm. My grinding into him wasn’t even involved! This was all from his attention on one of my nipples and I inwardly praised my body as I shuddered on top of him.

Military-style banter that I so wish I could remember followed. Trust me: fucking hot. Crush respectfully suggested we try the experiment again to see if we could reproduce those results and I agreed, but this time I demanded to lie on my back.

He took my nipple in his mouth again and he began to suck, but my nipple wouldn’t be so easily swayed this time. No matter. As he sucked hard I began to rub my crotch over my jumpsuit and, not that he knew that, my black PVC thong underneath. I rubbed furiously, so turned on by his desire and the sheer fucking hotness of it all. Soon I was shuddering, a second orgasm rippling through me.

Now Crush was bold with lust and, as we switched places again, asked me if he could spank me.

Well, I was in charge as his Commanding Officer, so what to do? But a filthy thought occurred. I quite like the idea of hurting a man, something he might not necessarily like, as a form of payment by him to get something he really wants. I’m not sure what it is about it. Perhaps the idea that his lusts have overtaken him so?

In any case, I offered the price of five pinches of his nipple for an undefined period of spanking me. He accepted nervously and I began, gently, to pinch him. I brusquely told him to count and he did. But he tried to be cheeky, tried to count three when it was two. So I started again. He counted the fourth pinch before I’d actually done it, so guess what? I started again.

This time there were no mistakes and I dismounted him, leaning forward on hands and knees as he spanked me with the red paddle. Sometimes I hate that paddle. Sometimes, as you’ll see, I love it. But right now it was a hard one to take.

Take it I did, though.

Now naked, he sat on the edge of the bed and I produced my black metal handcuffs from the little pile of toys I’d brought in. I set them down and, hot from our exertions, stripped the khaki jumpsuit from my body. Now he saw the thong and the full glory of my bodystocking as its netting covered my sticky-hot curves.

The hat, I noticed, fell some time during the spanking. Now it was pure kinkwear, but we kept up our roles nonetheless. My geek society would be proud. :P

I opened the cuffs, managing to hook them into my fishnet on the way. Sigh. Unhooking them, I instead attached them to my intended target. I grabbed them by the chain and hoicked his arms above his head, scratching at his chest and back and eyeing him fiercely.

Letting go, I made him scoot up the bed and knelt between his legs, bringing my beloved Tango vibe with me. I placed it between my labia, cushioned by them and kept in place by my thong and thighs. I turned it on and felt it throb. I kissed my way up Crush’s body, crawling seductively, reaching his cock and…

…running my tongue playfully a centimetre above his shaft as if licking, but not. A tease. A torture.

The kisses marched up his chest and neck before I turned and swooped back down on his cock, licking for real this time, making love to him with tongue and lips. I was feral, enthusiastic, I moaned when he leaked pre-come and writhed back and forth, managing to rock against the vibrator nestled in my folds. I came once, twice as I licked fervently and then collapsed on his cock.

I offered to let him fuck me, right then and there. But Crush was on task. He knew I had a goal to reach and figured one more towards it before moving on couldn’t hurt. He asked me to carry on licking and sucking and coming on my bullet vibe, but this time he wanted some dirty talk. And, narcissist that he is, heh, dirty talk about him.

So I told him as I licked him about how hot he makes me, how sexy he looks, his gorgeous body, his thick cock and I licked and sucked. I wriggled and turned up the rumble on my vibrator until I came again, moaning on his cock, gagging myself with his erection.

The finest part of the evening was still to come though. And I’m not even talking about the penetration. No, while that was fantastic, I think I liked the next part better. Remember I said sometimes I love the red paddle?

He wanted to use it on me again, this time while I continued to use the vibrator on myself. I was only too quick to oblige.

It was interesting how through the whole thing, I was still in charge. Even when I asked him what he wanted, even when I shuddered under his hand as he spanked me. It was strange, although it shouldn’t be, and wonderful. I was his superior officer, he a lowly subordinate and I was using him for my kicks. Simple as. Whether he spanked me or not, it was my will and I could easily have him court marshalled in a snap, naturally.

I discarded the ridiculously-named “bra belt” and the thong and leant forward on the bed. He spanked me as I toyed with my clit using the vibrator and for a while it was much the same as the first spanking. Then the rumbling on my clit began to kick in and, as I worked myself towards another orgasm, I found myself wanting more and more and MORE.

“Harder,” I begged and Crush obliged. “Harder,” I cried and he hit harder still. With each gain in arousal I wanted more force, more pain. Soon I was coming hard and Crush was pounding on me as hard as he could. I had never taken this much force for this long before and I kept it up as I rolled into another fantastic climax. I was out of breath, sweating, shaking, I was full of the most wonderful feelings and sensations. I collapsed forward and turned onto my back, gazing at my beautiful lad with wide eyes.

“I love you,” I said, breaking character momentarily.

“I love you too,” he replied.

The sex that followed was frantic and amazing. Once I’d warmed to the large cock inside me, I told him he could go as hard or soft as he liked. I think he tried to teach me a lesson and soon I was bouncing, shrieking, revelling in the wonderful pleasure/pain of his rough thrusts. He came inside me after a time and we flopped next to each other, spent… ♦



Roped Up

♦ I have two coils of rope, which I don’t use enough. This one is white and the other black. This one, I think, may not actually be sold as bondage rope, but it works perfectly well. It’s still strong and thick and soft. It still feels good wrapped around skin.

This picture is from a little while ago now where I decided it was about time we did some shibari on both me and Crush. I really want to get to grips with rope bondage and I still have fancies in my head of having one of those emergency rope bracelets so that I’m ready for emergency bondage at any time. ;)

So, without further ado, here’s me lying back and enjoying the caress of the karada Crush tied me into. It’s not expertly done or anything, but it’s a good start and I loved being in it nonetheless.  ♦

See who else is playing Sinful Sunday this week…


Niagara Fallen

♦ I have a strap-on harness. Two, in fact, though I think one may end up going back to the shop soon as it’s just not as good as the other. Well, technically, three, but one is Vac-u-locked to a phthalatastic Doc Johnson ‘dong’ that I am never going near again. It’s basically waiting on death row for a suitable demise. Fire’d be nice.

Anyway, I have a strap-on harness, or a few, and a goodly number of dildos. Long and fairly thin (like the one below, which is the Tantus Niagara), small and veiny, gorgeous and realistic, neon and slim, curved and chic, flexible and artsy. Heck, with the latest review item I’ve been sent, I even have a fantastic take on the stereotypical massive black one. And all of those have just the right base for putting in a harness.

Crush isn’t into anal or harness stuff, though, so why bother? Well, several reasons actually. Firstly, I originally bought the evil rubber one to experiment with my thoughts around gender. As you may know, I’m into androgyny. I’d love to have a cock of my own to play with and I can even make myself orgasm, in the right mindset, by stroking a cock or strap-on and pretending that I do. A strap-on harness allows me the fun and exploration of make-believe. Plus, it’s great for boinging around and doing the helicopter dick. :P

And besides which, I’m on the lookout for a nice girl to hopefully play with. And oh, how I’d dearly love to fuck a girl with my cock. A real cock would be better, but science continues to fail me, but this would certainly do. I find myself often shifting to a more masculine me around girls, actually. So hopefully if the opportunity arises, my harness will be good for that too.

Until then, I’ll have to stick to strapping one on and hanging out with my wang out. Like so… ♦

Details, Details

♦ I wrote this on the same train as I wrote Make Me. It’s not a direct line to my cunt like that poem, but worthy of inclusion on my blog. I was trying something slightly more complex with this one, so tell me what you think! ♦

The snap of the buckle settling into place
The slight creak of the rope taking the strain
The devil is in the details

Where you are imperfect, the knots are just so,
the lengths carefully chosen,
the cup and curve and caress of hemp on your skin
calculated to tease and comfort

Your asymmetry is his perfect canvas

The collar sits flush against your throat,
emphasising the soft flutter of your pulse
The clamps on your tits are polished to a shine

You are motionless, as instructed,
but for a tremble of your chin and a flicker of your eyes

A lock clicks into place at your wrists
A strap is shifted one degree to the left

The set-up was effortless and the adjustments minor,
the accoutrements chosen seemingly on a whim
You wouldn’t know it, but the exact curve of your spine at this moment
was planned weeks ago

He cups your chin and brushes a stray hair behind your ear
You are complete

Each detail is exact, each angle aesthetic,
each nerve in you tingling and taut as intended

And now the minutiae are in place and his masterpiece is realised,
he will relish defiling it

He will spoil the calm perfection he has created,
he will soil his unblemished canvas
He will desecrate you

Oh, the devil is in the details, my dear, but salvation is found in your flaws…

Erotica 2011


♦ This year, Crush and I decided to go to Erotica, Britain’s premier erotica show and exhibition, because I was keen and he is adorable. It was a bit of a bugger to sort out since we needed to get train tickets ASAP to keep it cheap, but the schedule for the event didn’t go up until late, so we didn’t even know what the shows would be, let alone when, and had to guess when’d be best to be there. That was a pain.

Once there and after a quick bag check (apparently Crush had ignored my instructions to “travel light” to the extent that they thought he might be smuggling in flyers), we were through the huge doors into the red-carpeted hall itself. The stalls started promisingly with some awesome bondage furniture, including one restraint chair that looked like a scorpion, and some great spanking chairs. There were some lovely metal spreaders and yokes that looked great but would have been totally impractical to take home on the train. There was even an incredible little rocking stool you knelt on that thrust a dildo upwards when you rocked. Sadly, we couldn’t really lug any of these around with us.

Then came a couple of stalls of cuffs and floggers and collars and crops and the like, which were interesting to browse but had nothing that caught my eye. Then the clothes. Oh, the clothes. From here on it’s harder to give an account of the vague order we took in our browsing because it all became a sea of clothes, a repetitive ocean in which I can only remember the notably different islands of interest.

Sure, I like clothes. I like what I somewhat jokingly have named “whorewear”. You know, a nice collective term for sexy and sexual clothing, whether burlesque, lingerie, stripperific, fetish, whatever. But, being overweight, none of the clothing stands appealed to me because I knew there was such a slim chance that anything would fit me. I did look for any sign of a plus size range, but found none and I was not going to trawl through rack after rack of gorgeous clothes just to end up disappointed and depressed. There wasn’t even any point me buying a corset since I’m not going to spend a bunch of money on something that ideally won’t fit well in a few months time, what with my diet.

That was the main problem with Erotica 2011 for me: the emphasis on clothes and therefore the lack of variety. I had expected a lot more weird and wonderful toys and fetish stuff and things like that. I would have loved it if Lovehoney or SexToysUK had had a stand there. I would have adored it if there had been some manufacturers there (although I know a number of them are overseas, so that might be unlikely). In fact, there weren’t many toys to begin with and when we did find some they were completely awful and nasty. The show guide said that the Erotica Toy Fair stall would have the We Vibe and a Lelo range and so on, but actually contained jelly monstrosities, cheap porn tie-ins (see “jelly monstrosities”) and too many things with the word “dong” written on them (see “jelly monstrosities”). Ugh.

As for unusual toys, there were only a few. At the innovative Little Rooster snorgasm alarm clock stall we spoke to its creator, a lovely and passionate man who was wonderful in that he could tell we didn’t want to buy one straight away but were just curious and so didn’t try to pressure us in the least. Instead, he answered our questions, gave us a flyer and was very courteous. I loved his approach, because nothing sends me running quicker than being hustled and you could tell he was really into his creation. There was also an intriguing but somewhat intimidating stand selling stone dildos.

We went to the Tgirl Bar (which I thought was treated somewhat insensitively in the show guide), but they didn’t have any cider and I wasn’t going to pay £4 for a Corona, whether it came with a free cropping or not. I know they had a job to do, but it seems sad that they basically ignored us if we didn’t want a drink. We squeezed some gorgeous fake breasts being worn at one stall, drank some strange shots at another and at the end of the day our purchases came to a rather measly three items: a rubber choker with a blue ‘gem’ for me, a huge red velvet dragon toy with poseable wings I bought for Crush and a seven-wheel Wartenberg wheel, which is awfully fun.

One thing that really did make the whole thing worth it, though: the shows that we saw! No, not the main stage’s Dance Seduction, which, apart from the pretty hot man-on-man tango, was pretty tame and rather boring, it was the Torture Garden Cabaret stage that really made it for us.

First up, after the rather hit-and-miss compère, an amazing part belly dance, part swordplay, part insane demonstration of muscle control by Leah Debrincat, who looks like this:

And dances like this:

She was erotic and insanely, insanely good.  Please do go and watch another video of her here, because it shows off her muscle control much better than my short clip. I honestly think she might be a (Reg Shoe style) zombie or a robot, because how else is she that in control of bits of her body I couldn’t even wiggle?

Next was the equally in control and erotic Hamish McCann, a male pole dancer with a body type I usually don’t find attractive, but who was incredibly hot thanks to his awesome pole skills and charm:

Yes, the “what the -?” that you can hear is me. Again, check out another video of him, this time Lost Beau‘s, here, because she took a better and longer video than I did. He was brilliant (and again probably from outer space or something) and it helped that he totally played to my tastes with the fedora and waistcoat as well as the Muse song, which I love.

The cabaret also included burlesque dancer Polly Rae doing a wonderful song and fan dance (my first proper fan dance!), androgynous dancer Karis Wilde doing unicorn-based hula hooping (which I also took a video of – longer, because a friend of mine would love it) and incredibly weird Chrisalys Circus dressed as a pig in a latex apron and being generally strange. Yeah.

They were all amazing and very worth watching (even the freaky pig guy) and they really made Erotica 2011 for me. Without them, I think it wouldn’t have been worth going. So, should you go next year? Maybe. There were several comments from various people that it had gone downhill this year, maybe they’ll listen and pick up the pace. But in general I think it depends on whether you can leave booking tickets late enough to know what the acts are and when you can see them and on whether you’re going to be very interested in huge amounts of whorewear and not a lot else, unless the traders change significantly by 2012. It was fun, but I wanted more variety. ♦

Bad Kitty

♦ I have a couple of collars besides my shiny one and my masculine leather one. Exactly two more, in fact, both matte and black, which close with poppers rather than buckles. One says “SLUT” in metal letters on the front, the other “BAD KITTY”. I don’t get a chance to wear them all that often, but I wore the bad kitty one to Mardi Gras last weekend for a bit of added spice to my rainbow theme, knowing that gay-friendly quite often goes hand-in-hand with kink-friendly.

When we got back from Mardi Gras (having bought a lovely suede flogger), all my accessories came off in a too-hot heap, leaving the collar on the coffee table. I thought nothing of it until last night when, idly fidgety and mischievous, I picked up my collar and played with it briefly before eyeing Crush’s back. Hmm. The collar is basically a leather strap with metal studs, when you think of it that way…

The thwack onto Crush’s back took him by surprise and he yelped. Apparently, it had stung. I’d been talking with him since Mardi Gras about how I’d like to wear a collar more often but that, since he wasn’t overly into it from his side, it would be a little bit like submitting to myself if he wasn’t fussed, which would be a bit rubbish. Nonetheless, I didn’t realise how much he’d taken on board.

It became more apparent when he firmly took the collar-turned-strap from my hands and said to me: “You’ve been a bad kitty…”

Before I could do anything, though I wonder now whether that was because of his speed or because that unexpected phrase had already taken me by the hair and dangled me off the ledge over subspace, he had pushed my head forward and was wrapping the collar around my throat. I must have just frozen because with my hair getting too long now there was no real way he could have closed the snaps on that collar without my compliance or, at least, without my inaction.

My reaction as he fastened the collar around my neck was internal and visceral. An explosion fired within my cunt at the shame and submission of this simple act. It was indescribably powerful and direct. I’ve felt very little like it. His collaring me was ridiculously erotic and I loved it instantly.

I’ve had a collar put on me before, of course. Fractal and I used the shiny one relatively often. But the act of putting it on before had always been during foreplay, whilst the mood was already sexed-up, not out of the blue. Not to mention in private, not out like this in my living room, a mere foot from Alt, my housemate.

If that same housemate hadn’t been there I would have jumped Crush like a shot, that option denied to me and the housemate’s presence (kinky though he is) stopping me from flirting outrageously obviously with my lover, all I could think to do was make mopey noises and pull a joke-sad face. I pouted and complained when all I wanted to do was drown in the envelopingly erotic feelings being emitted from my clit and pussy. I had no words to express what I wanted to, no way of explaining just what that little thing had done to me, especially not in company.

The room continued to move around me as I struggled to stay above water, to remain calm and to present a not-wildly-turned-on-honest face to the world. The pouting was like an armour, a little trick I used to distance myself enough to come up slightly from the submissive arousal he’d thrown me into. It was hard work.

I loved that he had shamed me this way, that he had punished me for my mischief. Heck, I think I even loved that he had done it in ‘public’, even if the only audience was my kinky housemate and even if said housemate was the only thing stopping me from leaping on Crush and fucking his brains out right there and then. The feel of the collar was gorgeous, it was sexy as hell as a symbol of Crush taking a stance and telling me off. It was submission alright.

But what I loved most of all was that he’d done this to me. Crush is dominant in a way that he isn’t submissive (though he tries gamely for me), but he isn’t into as much D/s things as I am. There are plenty of dominant things that I would love to submit to that he doesn’t particularly care for. He’d listened when I talked briefly about collaring with him, but the fact that he’d taken it to heart for me was wonderful. He’d decided I was naughty and thought I would like to be chastised in this way. He’d taken control and shamed me for my behaviour. He’d not just done it to me, but for me. It was romantic.

The shame, the slight public nature, the snug feel of the collar, the fact that he, He, he, had done this to/for me, it was so much to take in. It was a litany of pure lust. I was surprised by just how good it made me feel. I knew I liked wearing a collar, but I hadn’t expected to react so strongly to it. The sub inside me sung with delight.

The night carried on, my collar still around my neck. A friend came over and played boardgames with us, our other housemates came back and we chatted and laughed at Bear’s attempts to get his new gadgetry to work. It was a normal and pleasant evening but I hid a secret that soaked it with unseen pleasure.

The collar was comfortable, though snug, but it nagged at me all evening. It whispered lewd nothings to my cunt. Throughout the evening I was reminded of Crush’s reprimand, of that submissiveness, of the lurch between my legs he had caused.

When I thought about what he had done to me, why I was wearing this collar, a wave of lust surged in my sex, curling and rolling over inside me like a breaker on the shore before eventually crashing down into a wash of desire that never truly dissipated. I couldn’t quite forget that I was his and that I was in punishment. The collar was a constant reminder and it keep my tension on the rise all evening.

The bad kitty collar would stay on until we went to bed and I, naked and humbled, sat before him and asked, please, if I had been good enough for him to take it off for me. He complied and we turned in for the night.

My punishment wouldn’t yet be over for the day. He would make me submit again.

But that is a story for another night… ♦

(Just so you know, the original second half of this post (after “especially not in company”) disappeared into nothing when I accidentally hit “X” instead of the tab I wanted. Whatever you think of the new second half, I can almost guarantee the original was better. It was finished and it was, to me, at least, beautiful. I’ve tried to Frankenstein it back to life but you can still see the stitches and it isn’t the same. I hope I’ve learned my lesson, because, weird as it may sound, I poured a bit of my heart into that lost section. It’s gone now.)

Hitting the Switch

♦ When Crush casually lifted up his top to reveal his tight little stomach, as he has so many times before, who knew that it would lead to this? Him: mine. Me: in control and loving it.

He just looked so good. Now that I think about it, I suppose he didn’t look objectively any better than usual, but something caught me. Suddenly, I had to have him. That stomach had to be in my grasp, getting stroked, kissed and licked.

I rose from my seat and pushed him backwards hard onto our waiting bed. He flailed and fell, his eyes wide less in surprise than in anticipation. He likes it when I get fired up. I think he enjoys being almost wowed by my lust for him.

I joined him on the bed, clambering over his lower half to plant my lips on his stomach. Soon he was under a barrage of kisses and not long after that rough grasps were added to the assault. I was dedicated to just having as much of his beautiful stomach as I could. My movements were hurried and desperate.

Both our tops were the first to go, lost in a hustle and shuffle of fabric. His chest was my next battlefield. He doesn’t usually like his chest scratched since his skin is delicate, so I thought it best to ask. But not in a submissive way. Although I was asking his permission, I felt in control. I had control. It wasn’t a “Please may I?” sort of question it was more of a “You won’t mind if scratch up your chest, will you? You can do that for me, can’t you?” style, all honeyed and filled with poorly hidden threat. The idea of making someone agree to something they have a hint will turn out badly for them simply because they can’t say no, they can’t resist me, is intoxicating.

“OK,” he replied, “but just a little bit.”
“No, a lot.” I told him. “But for a little bit.”

I was going to scratch him hard, but he wouldn’t have to be good for long. Scoring the long lines down his chest was wonderful. It was satisfying, exhilarating and even naughty to know that ordinarily I couldn’t get away with this. He took it well, his gasps no more than I’d expected and no less than I’d hoped for. I leant in to kiss him and he sucked forcefully on my neck, leaving me gasping too.

I stripped on top of him and removed all his clothes. I decided, almost without consulting myself, that I wanted to give him a treat. I wanted to spoil him. It would have to be my signature move. That would do it. Now, to get the baby oil…

I got up quickly, surprising him, and went over to the chest of drawers. As I rummaged, he took a turn at surprising me and asked “Can I have a drink, Miss?”.

I blinked at him, knocked somewhat for six by the unexpected and submissive-sounding “Miss”. Somewhere inside my core a little switch flicked and started a Rube Goldberg machine that would power my control of him for the rest of the session. Dominant mode: engaged. Again, as with the ‘decision’ to treat him, the change seemed to occur on auto-pilot. I hadn’t suddenly thought to myself, “Hey, I know, I’ll take charge”. It just happened.

The switch was thrown and it was too late to go back.

Like a thing possessed I hunted through my drawers for equipment my mind had pre-loaded. I wanted certain things without any real thought at all. I found baby oil, as I was going to anyway, and set it to one side. Next came the blindfold, which I slipped over his eyes. The leather collar, more masculine than my own, followed and was placed gently but firmly around his throat. So far, such a good boy. No objections.

I pulled his hands through our permanent feature, the red rope ties attached to our headboard, and tightened the ropes. Almost as an afterthought I hunted for the small spreader bar and walked to the base of the bed to restrain his feet. He looked fantastic. You would not believe how good he looked all subbed up like that because frankly I didn’t either. Whether he felt a sub at heart or not, it suited him.

As I buckled the last cuff around his ankle, Crush wriggled a little, playfully dodging my grip. “Behave yourself,” I told him, “or maybe I won’t be nice to you at all. Be a good boy or you won’t have any fun.”

That saw to the wriggling quick enough.

With my gorgeous lover restrained, I added my weight to the mix, kneeling between his legs on the bar of the spreader. I opened the baby oil and poured the cool liquid onto his waiting cock.

It was time for my special move.

His hard cock suitably slick, I grasped it with one hand and rubbed the other firmly over the head of his sex, swirling my hand at the wrist. It’s a little trick I’d half-thought up, half-stolen from a book; the palm of your hand rubs over his cockhead in a sort of rotary wrist-based way I have always wholly failed at adequately describing. You need a fair bit of lubrication and it doesn’t hurt to be awfully firm. In any case, it’s got a 100% success rate in my (admittedly small) book.

Crush, for example, loves it.

I continued to pour baby oil liberally over his erection at intervals, using the excess to make his thighs and abs glisten in the light. Crush was wriggling and wriggling and eventually I had to get up from kneeling on his spreader because of how he was making it bite into my legs.

“Do you like it like this?” I asked.
“Yes,” he answered.
“Yes, what?”
“Yes, Miss.”

After quite some agonising time of him moaning, wriggling and bucking, as well as more of this delicious yet stern call and response, he began to crumble. “I want to be inside you, Miss”, he whimpered as I rubbed without mercy at his glans. There was only so much of this he could take. For Crush my special move is like a wonderful torment, at the same time ecstatic yet never quite reaching full crescendo.

I straddled him and leaned into his face. Pulling on his collar I hissed, “maybe I shouldn’t let you be inside me. Maybe I should just make myself come on top of you like this and leave you there.”

“Please, Miss, I want to be inside you.”
“Louder.” I still remembered our session recently when he had made me practically shout my head off as I begged him to fuck me. That memory made good fuel for my cruelty. A little taste of his own medicine.

When he had raised his voice to a normal talking level, I decided it was enough for me. His quiet bedroom voice sounds so different to his usual that it was a thrill to muddy his normal tone with our dirty fucking.

I teased him a little by rubbing his cockhead over my slit, moistening it to allow for easy entry. I was pleasantly surprised to find how wet I was. Pussies are fickle creatures and at times my mental arousal is much greater or much less than my physical one. Domination, as I’ve mentioned before, is not nearly so natural and visceral for me as submission. It doesn’t grab me by the cunt and force me to get sopping wet for it. But here I was, sopping indeed. I’d enjoyed this more than I realised I had.

I lowered myself onto him and told him to start fucking me. Screw it, I was in charge, why should I do any of the work, at least at first? Let him make the effort. Let him work for his pleasure. I was going to sit back and enjoy the ride.

And, oh, how I did.

My hand snaked down between our sweat-slick, oil-daubed bodies and found my clitoris. I started to stroke myself on top of him as he pounded up into me, his feet just finding purchase in their restraints. Being on top is one of my least favourite positions, but it really felt good just then. My fingertips worked frantically at my clit whilst he moaned and groaned. He was loving this. He told me later that my special attention to his cock had had a strange effect on him. He was dulled, but in a good way. His cock couldn’t feel the specifics of its pleasure but just an all-over haze of wonderful feelings. It was, apparently, a strange but brilliant sensation.

As I began to near my peak I relented and joined in with his movements, taking some of the strain of fucking ourselves into bliss. I came on top of him, my orgasm blundering through my body and forcing filthy words out of my mouth. The heady mix of control and climax was too much for me and my only pressure valve was a stream of dirty dominance moaned into his ear. He was my bitch. My slut. He was filthy for making me this way.

When I regained some semblance of normal thought patterns, my dominance straightened itself up and took on a more controlled air again. I continued to ride him. He breathed heavily, his eyes still covered and his body still all mine.

My voice now calm again, I told him, “I think I’ll have one more and then I’ll let you go.”

And so I did, using my fingers as I rode him, putting most of the fuck-effort in myself this time, fucking myself on his cock. I leant into him, the heat of our bodies intense. The orgasm that was building inside me was going to be too much for me without collapsing into him this way. I pressed my face into his neck and, as the orgasm hit, my mouth found his leather collar. I took it into my mouth and bit down hard, clamping my teeth down on it whilst waves of energy rocked me. I climaxed hard, pulling at the collar round his neck with my teeth, and action that seemed to me at once submissive and dominant. I was clamping down on it like a bit in the mouth of a fucktoy but also tugging roughly at the mark of submission at this throat, reminding him he was bound.

I rolled into another peak and let go, sitting up fully and pulling the blindfold from his eyes which were wide and strangely, almost ethereally pale. I know that when I submit and am wearing a blindfold I begin to crave the sight of him. The deprivation is hot and the amplification of my other senses is wonderful, but I need to see him. Having my blindfold pulled off mid-fuck is an erotic experience. Your eyes wince at the light newly hitting them while at the same time you strain to see your lover. The sight of them after what seems like so long deprived is almost an orgasm of its own.

Removing the blindfold like that was a trick I had picked up from being a sub and so I knew the power of it now that I was dominant. I love that I took something I knew worked because it worked on me and applied it to him now he was mine. He told me later that he really liked that part too, so I get to feel extra-smug.

As my orgasm faded, I took him in my arms in a pleasantly sweat-ridden hug. I kissed his warm mouth lovingly, stroked his hair and then tried to remove his restraints all too soon, my trembling fingers fumbling at the ropes and buckles.

“I could have done that myself,” he offered, knowing there are ways to get out of the red rope ties.
“No,” I replied, “you couldn’t. You might have been able to get out of them physically but I think you’ll find you’d have had a hard time managing it. After all, you were all mine.”  ♦

Festive Your Eyes

♦ Well, a very merry Christmas to all of you, particularly those of you who take the time to come and comment on this little slice of salacious webitude. I hope you’re all feeling suitably bloated and blubbery after gorging yourselves silly (I know I am), but look on the bright side: think of all the hot, sweaty sex you’re going to have to indulge in to work it all off :)

I’ve been enjoying myself back in my dear home country of Cornwall but there is a large part of me looking forward to going back to my own place so I can fuck Fractal silly. Luckily a side-effect of my aforementioned sudden rendezvous with a cold pavement has meant I’ve been in mildly searing back pain for the last couple of days and couldn’t have been engaging in any bed-based acrobatics anyway, so I don’t feel the loss too badly.

Still, I’m mostly recovered now and have been slowly working myself into a tense frenzy, ready to pounce on Fractal as soon as possible. Yum.

So, to ramp up the seasonal tension all round, here’s a few Chrismassy pictures from my dark and sweaty harem of enslaved pixels, I’m letting out of their bondage on my hard drive just for you… ♦

Holiday Kiss

Bad Santa


Candy Cane

Christmas Fetish