Tag Archives: bondage

Very Short Stories – Prometheus

♦ You may remember I posted something recently about Very Short Stories, the idea of writing flash fiction that fits on one side of an ordinary Post-It note. I shared my first attempt, too, a bit of a silly-but-sexy piece inspired by coffee (but not written whilst drinking it).

Heck, it’s even caught on a little bit, with bloggers keen to try their own versions and with some, like my friend Innocent Loverboy, having finished their Very Short Stories already. If anyone else has done one, just let me know! I’d love to read it and to let people know about it here.

In any case, I thought it was high time I did another. Again, I’m showing you both the actual Post-It and then giving a transcription for accessibility purposes…

image

“You stumbled into my Friday night a repentant Prometheus, bringing fire back to my belly. You left the bar with my number and a taxi fare. By Monday you could mould me like clay, breathing life into my cock at a whisper from your lips. Thursday evening saw the perfect retribution, as I chained you spread-eagled to my bed. Your liver untouched, I gorged myself on your cunt.”

Again, not a perfect tale, but again un-edited (except a word or two as I was still writing) and teeny-tiny. This one is a mere 55 words compared to the previous 62. My prompt, if you hadn’t already guessed, was the name Prometheus. Although I was inspired by finding the name out of context, I love the myth and soon ideas and analogies came racing to mind.

I’m quite pleased, though I wonder if I might be trying to do too much in too small a space (that may sort of be the concept, I suppose) and it’s certainly good to try some straight-up erotica rather than last time’s playful pretend porn.

What do you think of it? ♦

Review – Fetish Fantasy Spandex Full-Face Hood

Fetish Fantasy Spandex Full-Face Hood

Disclaimer: I was provided with a free Fetish Fantasy Spandex Full-Face Hood by Temptations Direct in exchange for my honest review. Click any image to embiggen.

♦ The Fetish Fantasy Spandex Full-Face Hood is a bondage accessory in Pipedream’s notorious and oft ridiculous Fetish Fantasy line.  It’ll be another short review for providers Temptations Direct, as there really isn’t much to say about an item this basic.

I’ve been curious about picking up a hood which obscures my face for a while now as I can’t help thinking it’d be easier to take pictures of myself with a covered face. The Spandex Full-Face Hood seemed to fit that bill and, since I like to be blindfolded and restrained, I thought it could be fun in those ways too. Yeah, it wasn’t, but let me get to that.

Spandex Full-Face Hood Packaging

The box is just what you come to expect from Fetish Fantasy, though is probably on the less porny end of their scale, though that doesn’t say a lot.

Inside you find the hood itself and a… Wait, what?

No Free Mask? Hallelujah!

As you might expect, the Spandex Full-Face Hood covers not only the head but the face as well; it’s described as “one size fits most” and fit me and Crush just fine. It stretches nicely and is neither too tight or too loose. It has plenty of room around the neck so it doesn’t feel strangly, but it could perhaps come down a little longer in the neck.

Seam of the Spandex Full-Face HoodCrush found that it wasn’t all that comfortable to wear, but admitted that that may be because it’s a hood as opposed to this hood, though. He’s certainly more fussy than I am, as I found it fairly comfortable in general, but we did both agree on hating one thing. Although, the hood is shaped slightly, with a bulge at the front where the face goes, for extra comfort, this means that the seam runs down the centre of the hood from front to back. And it’s really annoying. It’s either dead centre on your face, which feels quite forced, or it sits slightly to one side, which is still quite irritating and now it also looks irritating too. You can even see it from the inside while you’re wearing it, which makes perfectionists liable to keep fiddling to get it centred.

The Spandex Full-Face Hood is very lightweight and therefore incredibly easy to breathe through and hear through, but sadly also to see through. The box states that it allows “just a hint of light in while impairing vision”, but that’s nonsense. Oh, sure, you’re not 20/20 with the hood on, but you can basically see everything. How many fingers am I holding up? Check. Reading? Check.

Fuck, I could even play Saints Row: The Third (my current fave) with it on. So I did. And it was fine. Here’s your proof:

That’s me driving through da ‘hood in a hood. And getting Near Misses to boost my Respect. And not hitting a single damn thing. I then went on to do a full story mission in while wearing the Spandex Full-Face Hood and then take a video of me precision head-shotting pedestrians, as you do. All, supposedly, with impaired vision and just a hint of light.

Yeah, no, there’s no way I should be able to play a high-speed video game while wearing a bondage hood or anything claiming to impair vision. It’s like you’re wearing slightly shit sunglasses. Weirdly, this is one Fetish Fantasy product that actually could have done with the crappy Free Mask they usually bundle in! Then you might have a chance of actually “impairing vision”.

One plus point is that the Spandex Full-Face Hood at least looks the part. It’s a slightly glossy fabric which does look good on the wearer, smoothing their shape and rendering them anonymous. Want that anonymous hostage look? The gimp aesthetic? It does look the part and it stops you identifying the wearer, it just doesn’t stop them seeing out.

Wearing the Spandex Full-Face Hood

CONCLUSION

The Fetish Fantasy Spandex Full-Face Hood really varies depending on what you want from it. I got it for the anonymising aspect, sure, but I really expected the blindfold aspect too, so I’m disappointed by it. I should not be getting a hood I can play video games through. Especially for nearly twenty quid.

If you want something that obscures a person’s face, it does that whilst being comfy and breathable for the wearer, so go get it. If you want something that restricts the wearer’s vision, look elsewhere, despite what it says on the box. ♦

“Objectification” by Blacksilk

So, if you’ve read my latest blog post, the first one ever written by my beautiful partner Crush (and if you haven’t, do, this will make slightly more sense), you’ll have realised that I found myself entering a singularly unusual sexy situation just the other evening. I came home and up the stairs to Crush’s room, opening the door to a strange, but undoubtedly erotic, sight. Sprawled on the bed was Crush, strapped by his ankles and wrists to the under-the-bed restraints, wearing his sexy green shirt open to reveal his chest. He was wearing his jeans, but they were pushed down to his knees. He was bare from his knees right up to his neck.

But I didn’t get to see everything. Oh, no. His head was covered by what turned out to be a cider box, it’s side covered in white paper on which was drawn a head with a question mark for a face. Covering his cock was a homemade cardboard “Censored” bar that obscured what I assumed was his erection. A new vase of flowers stood on the chest of drawers and four red ones had been plucked from it and draped across his legs artfully. The computer screen showed a fantastic, and sarcastic, mini-essay about gender and objectification. Crush’s words explain this whole set-up best.

Nonetheless, a picture does speak a thousand words…

Objectified Crush

I was… well, flabbergasted. I’m not often lost for words of any kind. This left me speechless in surprise, shock… I was assailed by both the fact that Crush had planned something elaborate and thoughtful for me but also by the absolute absurdity and weirdness of the situation. I flailed helplessly for a moment before Crush drew my attention to my camera sat on his desk. I knew I had to take advantage of the situation. I stripped off my clothes and spent a few minutes restraining myself from touching him, taking photos of his beautiful body and his strange… art installation? I knew that once we really got started, none of this would go back the way it was.

Putting the camera down, I removed the flowers from Crush’s legs and put all but one of them back in the vase. I sat down next to him on the bed, naked, and began to run the petals of the flower head over his exposed skin. I trailed the flower over his chest, his arms, his thighs, then excruciatingly slowly up the length of his cock from base to tip. He sighed and I took to varying the sensations over his body: the edge of the petals, the face of the flower, the tip of the stalk. Each of them trailed over his flesh and teased his nerve endings. He couldn’t see except for a crack at the base of his head-box, which helped magnify the strange sensations.

I was peppering my exploration of his body with frequent spluttering cries of “You are actually mad, you know that?”, “I love you!” and “What on Earth possessed you?”. He explained a bit more of his thinking behind it all and mentioned in passing that the particular feminist he’d been reading had said something along the lines of that it was possible for women to objectify men but that it meant that they were basically really men and vice versa. My gender-bending kink pricked its ears up at this point.

“So, that means I’m a guy….” I said.

I know that genderfuck doesn’t really do it for Crush and that he still finds the whole idea a bit out of his comfort zone, but I was pleased to hear him reply so positively. Then he said a word that sent an honest-to-God jolt through my pussy and up into my brain.

“Master,” he called me.

I couldn’t even tell you why that did it for me or why that thought still does it for me. It’s something I feel rather than think. I like to analyse my kinks, of course, because it’s interesting; I’m just not very good at it.

Nonetheless, the word “Master” coursed through my body in a way it never has when I’ve said it in submission to a man. It was true arousal, devoid of thought, a direct line to my body. I grinned and he said it again. The rest of the evening, in fact, was spattered with it.

I removed his homemade “Censored” bar and took him in my mouth. I might have been nominally in control, Crush might have been wanting me to take the lead, but I still wanted to give him pleasure. That and the fact that he’d done this all for me, the fact that chemistry was powering my mostly-a-sub body more than intellect or emotion, meant that I was finding it hard to be anything other than pliant and grateful. But I love to suck him. His cock tastes beautiful, feels wonderful in my mouth and smells so good to me. His come, I’ll be honest, I can take or leave. But his cock…

Not too long in, I had a better idea. Sucking Crush’s cock was fun, but I wanted to tease and torture him at the same time. I straddled his chest facing his feet, took my beloved Tango vibrator from the bedside and placed it, buzzing, between my pussy lips. It nestled helpfully between my body and his, pinned by his taut chest and my folds, as I leant forward to suck him again.

It wasn’t the easiest of positions, let me tell you. I was awkwardly placed to keep hold of his cock as I needed my hands to prop my body up on all fours. When I shifted position, the Tango would sometimes move about and once made a beeline up Crush’s chest to rumble by his collarbone. But it was worth it when I moaned hard around his cock and came, shuddering, on top of him, my pussy mere inches from his obscured face.

I wanted him inside me and he readily agreed. He suggested I stay facing his feet and give reverse cowgirl a go, something we’ve never tried before. Again, it turned out not to be the easiest task, but to be worth it. I falteringly guided him inside me as I straddled him around the hips and called him my bitch. My slut. He called me his Master.

Objectification Head Box

He could still peek out of the bottom of his box and I wondered briefly what the view, if really any, was like for him. It was a much more awkward position for me and for the ease of thrusting/riding than the usual girl-on-top, but the novelty (and the vibrator I held to my clit) made up for that. Adventure, after all, is exciting. Trying something new together, whether a resounding success or just a new sensation, is a wonderful experience. Whilst it’s not a position we’ll go back to regularly, the discovery was wonderful.

I dismounted and turned to face him, adding some lube to his cock for an effortless re-entry. This time, I’d go for “normal” cowgirl. It was just too hard to let go and come when I was in the other, more awkward, position. When it suited me, I pulled the cardboard box from his head, leaving him blinking up at me in the bright light of the bedroom. I know he loves to see me anew after being deprived. He started to up the frequency of his dirty comments to me and I lapped them up, asking for more, more, more. I bounced on his cock and he thrust up into me, making himself mine with every one of his utterances, giving himself to me with his body. Before long I was asking from one phrase and one phrase only, on repeat, as I climbed towards my summit.

“Please come, Master.”

He begged, he pleaded with those words. I shook, the Tango still at my clit, the sweat coating my skin, my knees weak with exertion. And I came. I came perhaps as hard as I’ve ever come. I talk big sometimes with metaphors and similes and rhetoric, I write my orgasms as storms and bullies and destruction. This was cataclysm. When it finished, I could barely speak, barely move, barely think. My body could support myself no longer and I let myself tumble sideways from Crush’s body. I fumbled, dumb, a zombie, at his nearest wrist strap, releasing him from his bonds and told him to fuck me again. I demanded that he take me as I recovered on my back.

And he did. His cock slid inside my honestly quite battered pussy, my pleasure-weakened body. This fuck was for him. His time to come. I told him as much and he certainly didn’t hold back. His Master spoke firmly to her little slut, goading him, urging him on until he too came hard, gasping, panting.

He collapsed onto me and we athletes rested our tired, hot, sticky bodies in each others’ arms. And I’ll tell you something: as they say “I don’t know much about art, but I know what I like.”

And Crush’s exhibition was certainly a resounding, earth-shattering, love-tempering success. ♦

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…

 

The Swinging Tree

I wrote this story for the Erotic Meet competition A Pleasure Shared. The idea was to take a fantasy or pleasurable moment supplied by another member and turn it into a erotic creative piece. I chose MissPlayer’s inspiration, which was “outdoors intimacy – a little more specific, bare toes, barely touching damp soil, arms raised and restrained…” I didn’t win, but I still really love this story. What do you think?

♦ The first drop of rain hit just as the familiar shape of the swinging tree came into sight, but by the time we had reached it, we were half-soaked through. We laughed as we ran in under the branches of the tree and gasped surprised breaths into air made oppressive by the recent heatwave. The day had started out as we remembered them: baking sun, still air and a heavy feeling that, had we but realised, should have warned us of the rainstorm to come.

You hefted the rucksack from your back and I turned from your brown-eyed gaze to look at the tree before me, filled with a sense of comfort to be back under its branches. As children we had learned to jump up and grab the one branch low enough to reach, swinging from it for as long as we could manage.

Now we were older, the swinging tree’s same perfect branch was within tiptoe reach and I marvelled at how I had ever managed to jump so high so young.

You sighed and I turned to see you pulling off your sodden top. I smiled at your rain-slick torso, remembering how it felt when I first stroked the firmness of your chest. I saw flashes of skin, flusters of nervousness, our first faltering fuck. That summer had been particularly glorious.

“You’ll catch your death of cold in those clothes,” you chided, playfully.
“Yes, mother.” I replied and you swatted at my thigh.

We were sheltered from the worst of the rain and from prying eyes and I relished the thought of being naked again with you. It had been too long since my last visit. My canvas shoes were the first to go and my socks along with them. My feet felt free of burden now and I relished in feeling the damp soil between my toes and in knowing how black my soles would become. I watched you somewhat cautiously as we stripped, but your smiles and skin soon put me at ease.

The only thing not too badly drenched were my little white knickers, so that’s all I had on by the time I leant back under the limb of the swinging tree. You hadn’t changed one jot over the years and wore no underwear. That much was clear as your erection stood proud and clear in front of me.

You had a dopey sort of look on your face as you approached me, one I’ve always loved. You put an arm around my neck and pressed your hardness into my front, pushing my back against the damp bark. All I could hear was our shallow breaths and the rushing patter of droplets as the rainstorm broke around us.

Your tongue found mine as the first thunderclap rolled. The weight of the air lifted and the oppressive pressure of that stifling day broke in an instant as I opened myself to you.

“Close your eyes,” you said and I did so willingly, my pussy knotting at the memories those words evoked. I’d always trusted you a little more easily than perhaps I should, but you’d never betrayed me.

I heard the zip of the rucksack and the rustle of rummaging over the rain. When you returned I felt the tip of your cock press against me as you lifted my arms gently above my head. You pulled me up onto tiptoe and guided my hands to the branch of the swinging tree. The feel of rope pilfered from the tent slipping around my wrists was, I admit, not the biggest surprise. I remembered a whole weekend of us poring over illustrations of knots and positions and harnesses and how we had muddled our way through several silly mistakes before you perfected the art.

And perfected it you had. “You can open your eyes now,” you said and I did. I was firmly trussed, arms raised above my head and body at almost full stretch, teetering on tiptoe. That wasn’t to last.

“Let me swing your legs up,” you told me.
“Why?” I replied.
“For old time’s sake.”

I raised an eyebrow, but agreed all the same. The branch was still firm and slightly supple and wobbled a little as I swung my lower body up and into your arms. I trusted it no less than I trusted you, having seen it stand our attentions over many years.

You lifted me by the rump, taking care not to slip on my damp skin. Soon my ankles were locked around the sturdy branch and not long after you had secured those too. My knickers felt decidedly more damp then they had been a moment ago, but I was sure I hadn’t felt the splash of any of the raindrops finding their way through canopy there.

You waited by my behind, naked as a babe, goosebumps peppering your flesh even in this still-hot air, your cock now only semi-erect. I wondered what you were waiting for.

Thunder rolled through the afternoon again and only a split-second afterwards I felt the sting of your hand on the slick skin of my bottom. I yelped but did not shudder with shock, aware that my position was precarious.

Thankfully, the storm was not close enough to be in danger of a lightning strike and the only thing I had to fear was your resounding smacks, each one coming in tandem with the booms of thunder, the pauses filled with a soothing rub from your palm or a salacious tease of my pussy lips.

“We’ll get you warmed up yet,” you teased.

You kept to your word and soon my ass felt on fire from your ministrations and my knickers were soaked through with my own pleasure. The air smelt wonderfully of pussy juice and petrichor.

Each spank made my flesh sing and my cunt twitch, each one was seared into my memory. You were unforgiving and I was unending in what I could take. The branch of the swinging tree wavered and shook, but did not give. I wavered and shook, but did not give.

When you grew tired of spanking me you loosened the rope from my ankles and lowered me by the legs, leaving me once again on tiptoe. My limbs were sore from taking my weight and my bottom ached in the most welcome, wanton way.

“Thank you,” I said and you smiled. You kissed me passionately and I wished I had my hands free to hold your face.

With my body stretched like this and my toes barely touching the moist earth beneath my feet, I was at the perfect height for you to slip your once-again stiff cock past my pathetically see-through panties and into my opening. You fucked me roughly against the bark of our old childhood haunt and I gasped and giggled in the fresh, new air as the sudden rainstorm began to wane around us.

As I bounced on your cock in the security of your restraints and the shelter of our intimacy, I relished the dying sound of the rain and the crescendo of our orgasm together. We’d likely have to turn back so as not to catch cold in our wet things, but for now the sanctuary of the swinging tree was all we needed to fuck and be fucked, to love and be loved and to revel in every moment of it. ♦

Intimates

♦ As some of you might have read on my Twitter recently, Crush and I decided to put Friday evening aside last week for a nice meal out at a restaurant and a bit of a romantic evening together. We try to go out to eat every now and again but it had been a little while, not least because I’ve been on a bit of a diet-type thing (I still feel like I get 20 boring points just for saying that) for the past few weeks (going well, thanks for asking). So, we decided to give me the night off that so I could enjoy nommy food and drink plenty of red wine. Red wine is awesome and certainly no hindrance to a nice, sexy romantic evening.

Being a Friday, I didn’t really feel much like making an effort and dressing up smart, but dammit, Crush deserved it. Tired or no tired, I should damn well make a bit of effort for him because it’s not all that often that I really get the chance, what with busy and all. I have a whole drawer at least of gorgeous underwear begging me to come back to it and give it one more chance.

So I picked out something nice and got myself dressed. Then, before choosing outerwear (so much less important and fraught with decision), I made the silly mistake of telling Twitterites that I was wearing something devastatingly smexy.

Of course you demanded pics or it didn’t happen. Of course.

Point of Interest 01: Yes, I have now done one of the ubiquitous wobbly Ikea mirror self-taken shots that Jake was talking about.

Point of Interest 02: I certainly do have a triceratops sticker on the back of my phone. Sorry these pics are from a phone at all. Hope they’re clear enough.

Point of Interest 03: BOOBIES!

The last one there includes my outerwear. A black velvet bodice-type top (I’m still not quite sure I’m over my aversion to velvet, I worry that it screams “overweight goth”) with a frilled black and white striped shirt, a long black skirt and nice stompy boots. Don’t worry, I wore a colourful necklace to overpower the goffick.

What was interesting about what I was wearing was that I should have felt perfectly secure in it. My skirt was long, not see through and not likely to blow up in the wind, however, when we left for the short walk to the restaurant, I felt extremely exposed and vulnerable.

In a good way.

I suppose what you can’t see in any of those pictures is that the bottom half of that little set was a relatively tiny (but pretty) thong. This coupled with the sense of ‘rigging’ of wearing garter-belted stockings has to be the main part of why I was feeling this way. As I walked down the street, arm in arm in with Crush, I could feel that I was wearing something skimpier than my usual affair under my skirt. And it all felt precarious.

Garter belts (or suspenders if you want to sound British but like your nan about it) are tricksy mistresses liable to suddenly ping off a strap or two when you least expect it. The one I’d asked Crush to do had already done so before we left the house. And, hey, I know I’m overweight. The extra strain I’m probably putting on those snaps ain’t gonna help.

I could feel the straps snug against my legs as my skirts swished. I love that feeling. In my mind it equals bondage. I’m not saying that wearing a garter belt is a form of bondage, I’m saying that my mind reacts to both in the same way. I feel garter belt straps as bondage even if I don’t think of them that way.

And I could also feel the places where my stockings were not pinned into place by straps and how the stockings were even then trying to wriggle down in those places as we travelled. It was unlikely, so unlikely, that the whole set of rigging would come undone and I’d find knickers and stockings around my ankles and a gust of wind whipping up my skirts, but the thought niggled nonetheless.

I felt like an Art Frahm drawing waiting to happen. I’d even bought celery that week.

I felt, also, like sin on legs.

I was already feeling turned on by the time we walked into the restaurant door, so staring at Crush lit by candlelight for the evening on several glasses of Red Wine the Mighty Hornifier was just going to make that worse and worse. Heck, I found even the act of the waitress pouring our wine to be strangely compelling (a story for another time perhaps). As the evening drew on, I felt like the sexiest woman alive. It’s strange to describe it this way, but I actually felt brimming with a sort of sexual energy. A lustiness, a sexiness, an allure and a desire all at once.

Crush was divine that evening. I fell in love with him all over again. He was glorious. Things progressed much the way you might expect when we got home as he easily slid his cock in past my panties.

The point of this little post? Well, mostly because several of you clamoured for pictures and I had handily thought ahead enough to take them, but also to say that wearing underwear that makes you feel sexy, especially if it’s a little different from your everyday stuff, can really make an evening go with a bang. I’d have enjoyed myself anyway, of course, but walking down that street with my head full of nerves and excitement and my body carefully wrapped in sartorial predicament bondage was an experience I’m glad I didn’t miss out on.

I shall have to wear this kind of thing more often. ;) ♦

This is my first Wanton Wednesday, hurrah! See other participants here:

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.”  ♦

Tied Tomboy

♦ I got a bit of praise for my sexy doodles on my Twitter just the other day. Doodles like my devil girl, the housewife and the kinky pairing of a devil woman taking an innocent angel girl to task. So, I thought, hey, I must have some more saucy drawings around here somewhere that I can post.

A little rummaging in my folder found this little gem, drawn during the Fractal Years, as I recall. …

Click for full size and much better quality. Looks a bit grainy like this.

Mmm, yes, please. You can tell you’ve done a good job when you’re turned on by your own drawing!

What more can I say? I love bondage and I love the idea of women in men’s clothing. Tomboys are sexy and crossdressing as a man is even hotter. Not that she’ll be fooling anyone with those breasts but that’s part of the charm. Obvious and voluptuous femininity hidden behind a thin and oh-so-abusable masculine disguise. Fabric drawn taut over breasts, the only thing restraining them. Braces snug over pert nipples. A tie for pulling her lips close.

I love that this particular drawing is an odd but complementary mix of masculine shirt and tie with feminine charms, stockings and heels. A conundrum I’d love to unravel.

With my tongue. ;) ♦

Disney for Deviants – Part 1

Or, Defiant Men in Distress

♦ If there’s one thing I learned fairly quickly and with great certainty as I became a sexual being: I love kink. I get off on BDSM and specifically I’m a subby little slut. I love being tied up, I love being used and abused. And, of course, I love seeing this sort of thing in films and books and so on too. The thing is, even before I got into BDSM or even sex or even had masturbated for the first time, I knew what I liked to see. It’s strange. I hadn’t even really started to think about sex yet except perhaps in vague terms, but still, seeing certain things resonated strongly with me in a thrilling half-romantic, half-something else way.

I didn’t know quite what I liked about it, but I knew what I liked. And one thing I liked big time, with the benefit of some added hindsight, is the delicious, gooey, defiant manliness of a guy in distress. And you know what? Disney, of all people, is really good at this. I mean really, surprisingly good. Hey, tell you what, at this point I’ll come clean and say that this post was really sparked off by my memories of one film in particular and all the rest of the references are going to be shuffled in around it.

That film? Sleeping Beauty. (Other, lesser examples of this kink: the capture of Robin Hood in Robin Hood, Phoebus’s defiance against Frollo and his capture by Clopin in the Hunchback of Notre Dame.)

My abiding memory of that film, the one that overrules everything else even after watching it in subsequent years, is of the wicked (and awesome, in both ways) Maleficent with our hero Prince Phillip at her mercy. Specifically, I’m talking about two fairly short scenes here (pictures below are links to the scenes in question, as long as YouTube plays ball).


What does it for me? In the first scene, the rope, the gag, the strong and masculine figure bound and helpless and, most importantly of all, the small amount of wriggling to get free. The second is similar, oh, sure, the chains help, but what I really like about it is the defiance in him as he struggles in vain against his bonds, the masculine force, the rebellion.

It turns out that I really like to see heroes (and if they weren’t before, this makes them a hero for me) captured and almost powerless. I say almost, because the only power they really have left is to defy their captors and rail against their captivity. To defy them, in fact, often beyond all reason. Because what Disney films generally won’t show you is the cost of their defiance. The hero is bound or held somehow, the villain gloats and makes threats, the hero recklessly struggles half-free or spits at his captor or gives a witty and defiant retort and he is struck hard by the villain or their henchmen for their insolence (I think the closest Disney ever got to this was a rare female example where Jafar threatens to backhand Jasmine for throwing wine in his face, causing her to fall to the floor. (Incidentally, I’ve seen a fair few things with the hitting part of it added, I just can’t recall any examples now. If anyone would like to recommend any, that’d be awesome. And I should clarify here that when I say the guy gets a smack for his rebellion, I don’t mean he gets the crap beaten out of him. No horrendous violence, just a wee bit of acceptable pain and a show of power.) What’s important here is that the hero doesn’t cringe or repent or acquiesce, but remains defiant, though maybe silently so, and stoic. Or perhaps he continues to struggle angrily as he’s carted away.

Either way, I love that. It’s fucking hot.

And the thing is, I’m not quite sure why. What does that make me? I’m a sub mostly, I’m supposed to enjoy me being tied up and so on. Actually, I think I’d find that scenario pretty hot with me as the plucky captive, but that’s not what I’m looking at. He’s the one being tied up, not me. And whilst I’d enjoy myself in that scenario (seriously), I don’t think that’s why I get turned on watching it. I’m pretty sure I don’t put myself in his shoes. Sure, I’m a bit into androgyny and genderfuck, I’ve been a ‘boy’ in sexplay before, I have a packing cock, but I don’t think I’m identifying with that strong masculine presence on screen. And weirdly, I’m equally sure that I’m not identifying with the evil captor either. Sure, although I sub mostly I think I’d really like to dom a strong male who was into it, but again, I don’t think that’s how I’m watching it. So, is this submissive? Dominating? Neither?

Seems like I just get turned on by watching hot guys full of bravado in captivity (I’d also love to hear from anyone else who thinks this is hot, there’s safety in numbers!). At the time I wasn’t fully aware of it, but these moments, notably in Disney’s Sleeping Beauty, were the first flickerings of being turned on by bondage, dominance and submission. Hell, probably the first flickerings of being turned on by anything, actually.

Of course, what I wonder is did I always like this somewhere deep down or did watching these scenes somehow incline me to kink to it? Was it these scenes that helped mould me into the little deviant I am today or was my love of them an early symptom of my love for BDSM? Either way, this was a big thing in my early proto-sexuality. I got turned on (at first romantically, admittedly, if that makes any sense) and thrilled by these surprisingly kink-filled themes before I even knew what turned on was. They’re an important part of my sexual make-up.

And guess what? You get to hear more about them! What, you thought this was it? Oh, no, my friends, in the next part of this little series we’ll discover yet more subtle and secret Disney depravity and how it has affected and reflected my proclivities. More men in pain, more masculine deliciousness, added genderfuck, a dash of plain-old eroticism and lust and a good dose of turbulent slap-slap-kiss! ♦

Festive Your Eyes Again

♦ Well, last year I gave you some festive saucy pictures, but the very next day you…. no, wait, that’s a terrible reference. In any case, this year, to save you from…wait, I mean this year here are some more. Phew. Just about got through that without incident :P

I’m going to be enjoying myself at a Christmas burlesque this year before spending the period with friends and family. Should be great.

In any case, hope they warm you up on a cold winter night. A very merry Christmas to you all and I hope you have a great New year too! ♦