I loved this chandelier in the bedroom of the B&B we stayed in last night. There’s something oddly reminiscent of dripping blood about the red glass bits.
The posing of the cuffed hands was sheer serendipity. I was looking for a shot that combined the atmospheric chandelier with hints of the playful kinky sex we’d just spent the evening indulging in, and while trying out various angles, this one declared itself the winner
Who else is being sinful this Sunday? Click the lips to discover more deliciousness!
He licked me as though he were a sun-blind desert nomad and I an ice sculpture of his most longed-for mirage. No tip-of-the-tongue delicacy, no butterfly-soft tease; he gave me the full weight of his tongue from the cleft of my buttocks to the nape of my neck as I moaned and my legs opened in involuntary expression of my arousal.
Inflamed by my reaction, he dipped his head again and painted swirling circles of heat in the small of my back and across my arse cheeks. I closed my eyes and lay passive, sublimating between a fierce burning crucible of need and the molten liquid fire of response within.
With each stroke, a nip of flesh between teeth to make me stiffen and gasp, the gentle brush of enamel on skin then return again to hot, wet tongue. He explored the landscape of my backside, finding and addressing each curve, each plane, first with gentle leisurely strokes then sucking wide-mouthed on my rounded softness, probing and searching, assessing with his questing tongue, his spit-slippery lips.
Moving slowly, with certainty and deliberation. hands followed mouth, kneading, stroking, filling, until at last I felt his heavy cock press against my slick and eager cunt. As his lips enclosed my earlobe, I dissolved in the hot breath-filled hollow between shoulder and neck. He made a warm sweet puddle of me and immersed himself with a sigh of delight.
His hands covering mine, our whispers of pleasure and desire met and mingled in our front-to-back entwining. Plunging deep inside me, he took and gave in equal measure; control without demand, understanding that the submission of my body to his brought mutual uplift and fulfilment.
By the time he turned me over and presented his dripping cock to my open, eager mouth, I would have given him my soul for the asking.
Edging myself is not something I do deliberately very often. I’m terrible at self-denial (and not just when it comes to orgasms; I’ll eat chocolate until I feel sick and smoke until my lungs hurt because – well, why on earth would I stop?!)
I love being edged by someone else – not just the tantalising feeling of almost-but-not-quite, but mostly the delicious knowledge that someone else is in control of my physical sensations and that they are doing to me what they want. The cheerfully sadistic grin on The Fella’s face when he pulls his hand from my clit at the last second and watches me writhe in torment only intensifies my pleasure and longing. Despite my pleading and gasping for release, I’m almost disappointed when he finally gives in and allows me to come.
But when it’s just me doing me, where’s the fun in holding back? When I’m pleasuring myself, it’s all about the buildup to orgasm; in my mind the climax is the goal and the purpose of the whole exercise – why would I not take it to conclusion as fast and hard as I can?
This time was different. I had a whole evening alone in an anonymous and rather dingy hotel room, no mobile signal to speak of and no desire to spend my leisure time getting ahead on my work. Obviously, the logical thing to do was to have a wank. A nice, long, leisurely wank that would keep me occupied until sleeptime. How to make sure it would go on long enough? Clearly the answer was to indulge in some edging. An solution to be found lurking in the cracks, as it were.
I take off my clothes slowly and deliberately, folding each item neatly away in my suitcase until I’m standing naked in front of the full-length mirror. Appraising myself with the eyes of a lover, I run my hands across my breasts, up my legs, over my buttocks with a light sensual touch. Not the sort of touch I’d usually favour when bringing myself off – no pinching, grabbing or squeezing this time; I was taking it slow.
I lie down on the double bed, relishing the feel of cool crisp cotton sheets against my bare skin. Forcing myself to keep still and absorb the sensation, to keep my greedy hands under control and away from my hungry cunt.
As my nipples harden, I turn over onto my back and spread my limbs; imagining ropes around my ankles and wrists, securing me to the corners of the bed and restricting my movements. I hold myself there, straining against illusory bonds and feeling the breeze from the window caress my slick and swollen labia.
This is sweet torture. I want to shove my fingers inside myself and fuck myself hard.
But I don’t.
I reach to the bedside table for the bullet I’d placed there earlier and switch it on. Not my usual favoured medium-intensity steady buzz but a staccato pattern of long and short impulses. I tuck the bullet against my clit and close my legs, trapping it in place. No hands. Not yet.
The wait between each pulse seems longer and longer each time, the sensation heightened with each vibration. Before it can overwhelm me, I move the bullet to my left nipple then my right. It’s as though each has a direct line of nerves to my clit, in the absence of stimulation there, my breasts are super-sensitive. I want to twist, pinch, pull on them.
Not yet, I tell myself
Wait for it, you greedy slut
I circle the opening to my cunt with the bullet, never allowing it inside even as I buck my hips and groan to be filled with something – anything. I want to batter myself cross-eyed with the biggest dildo I can find, grind my clit against the throbbing bullet, choke myself until my orgasm burns though me.
But I don’t.
For hours, I keep myself teetering on the brink, keeping rigidly still with my hands by my sides and my legs spread whenever the rising tide of arousal threatens to overpower me, then starting again, with light gentle strokes, and fleeting pulses; trailing my hands over my quivering body, sucking on my fingers to taste myself, unwilling to let the tension reach its peak.
Finally, after the sixth – or was it seventh? – stagger back from the brink, I decide to allow myself to come. This time, I grab myself, slap my breasts, squeeze my throat, set the bullet to maximum intensity and grind it into my clit relentlessly, jabbing three fingers into myself with my other hand, abandoning myself to the overwhelming urge to climax and screaming into the pillows as an intense orgasm takes me over.
When the aftershocks have subsided – at least ten minutes later – I stumble to my feet on shaking legs and prepare for bed.
Today, I desperately want to be dominated. I thought I was just horny but even after a wank featuring a beaded glass dildo and much fantasising about rough gangs and rope, I still feel a deep yearning inside me which I know from experience can only be fulfilled by willing obedience to the will of another. To have the burden of decision-making – even for something as banal as ‘shall I have a cup of tea now?’ not just lifted from my shoulders but held high over my bowed head, is something my whole body and mind cry out for right now.
To be naked and compliant, to follow orders without question and to be used for the pleasure and desire of someone who wields control and authority; is what I need, so badly. I crave the inner peace of willing surrender. I long for direction and command.
Just to kneel, eyes lowered and body exposed. To keep still and quiet as I am inspected, assessed and (hopefully) found to be to the liking of the one into whose hands I have placed my trust. My throat is aching to be held firmly, my ears are straining for instructions. My mouth is twitching for kisses, for pinches, for the biting of my lip as I am . My wrists are incomplete without the bindings of ownership; I have too much freedom of movement and idle laxity of limb for comfort. Every nerve ending is screaming to be put to use at the service of another.
Sex? Not necessarily, even for this insatiable slut. I’ll beg for it, if that is what is required of me – and enjoy every pleading word. But orgasms are not my goal, neither is the white-hot furnace of denial. Whether my directed role today is passive fucktoy or accomplished courtesan, I will open my wet throbbing cunt or my soft eager mouth in welcome. If I deserve a beating, I will present myself; kneeling with my arse high and my face to the floor. When peace and quiet is required, I will offer my face for the gag and step softly on bare feet. I will scream, whimper, laugh, chat, recite, repeat, obey.
Left to my own devices, I am lazy and self-indulgent, without purpose or direction. I don’t need validation, for I am complete and secure in myself. I will not accept abuse or coercion – everything I do will be with my conscious consent. I am submissive, not lost or weak. I find strength in my submission.
While I love sunshine and warm weather, I – along with the rest of the UK – am definitely not used to the current temperatures. After I’d drenched two vest tops simply from sitting around, I decided that clothes were overrated and so was being upright
It’s been three days since I ordered the gadget and this morning the maildrone dropped it on my doorstep. I’m supposed to be working but I reckon I can legitimately take a quick break to have a peek at the device the Internet has gone crazy for.
“The BeTogether brings revolutionary thought-connection technology to life!” cooed the adverts “Be closer than you’ve ever dreamed!”
I’d sighed and felt the familiar wistful longing. ‘Closer’ for me and Rob would mean bridging the glacial gulf that has been forming between us lately. A crevasse that conversation can’t seem to fill, seemingly too wide to reach across with a simple loving touch. His occasional outbursts of devoted allegiance had become nothing more to me than echoes, reverberations from a time when we were inseparable – physically, emotionally, spiritually. Now we may as well be on different continents, so disjointed and halting is our communication.
On an impulse, I bought a BeTogether rig, there and then. If this damn thing can’t help us, then it’s definitely time to call an end to the relationship.
I open the discreet cardboard box, then the tastefully-designed inner box, with its sci-fi depictions of brainwaves and beautiful people swirling in dark blues and vivid purples across the planes and edges. Inside, the BeTogether units nestle on a bed of black flight-case foam, gleaming silver through the hygiene wrapper.
“The BeTogether comes fully-charged” says the instruction leaflet, to which I give a wry smile. It might be ready but we’re not. Until Rob comes home tonight, this kit is little more than a curious ornament, rather than the life-changing technology that I’m counting on to rescue our estrangement.
Oh well, I suppose it can’t hurt to just try it on.
I settle one of the headsets around the base of my skull, carefully positioning the contact points just above my ears. Comfortable enough. I reach up and power it on.
A chime sounds in my ears and something happens in my mind. Something undefinable and indescribable – I feel as though an unseen window has opened inside my head. It’s weird, but not unpleasant.
Another chime. What? I haven’t pressed any of the control buttons but before I can start to wonder about this, a powerful wave of sexual arousal sweeps over me. I haven’t been this turned on in – how long? Perhaps a year at least. I’m stunned by the suddenness and intensity of this feeling, I want to tear off my clothes and reach for the nearest human being, fill my mouth and hands with their flesh, feel them fill me in response.
I sink to my knees in the hallway surrounded by the detritus of packaging I’ve strewn about. One hand slips under the waistband of my leggings, the other creeps up to my breasts.
Oh god, I’m so desperately, longingly horny.
I close my eyes and the sensation builds. There’s something different. My fingers are rubbing my clit, dipping in and out of my wet cunt, but it doesn’t feel the same as on those many sleepless nights I’ve quietly brought myself the pleasure that my stagnant relationship denies me. Eyes closed, I frown in puzzlement.
-there’s an urgent hardness at my groin, a heat-seeking engorgement standing proudly out from my body. I’m grasping it firmly, moving my hand slowly back and forth along its sensitive solidity-
-my thumb circling my clit light and fast-
-a tighter grip at the head of this (imaginary?) dick, other hand cupping the unfamiliar crinkled skin of a pair of balls that are definitely not mine – but the sensation sends hot thrills snaking upwards through my belly-
-thrusting two fingers as deep into my cunt as I can reach, hooking the tips to probe for the sweet spot which I know will set ripples of electric fire aglow within me-
-my hand clenched at the tip of my dick, squeezing and releasing as the shaft below throbs with the urge to be tightly enclosed-
-one finger reaching back to my arse, tapping teasingly at the puckered sensitive skin-
-long hard strokes from base to tip, the friction against my frenulum wringing a grunt of pleasure in an unrecognised voice-
-bucking my hips and plunging the finger deep into my arse; double penetration with one hand, the other bracing myself against the wall as I fuck myself with abandon-
-feeling the tension gather my balls tight together as though with a drawstring, the almost-pain of orgasm building; each crick of my wrist dragging me closer to explosion-
-twitching and clenching around the fingers buried inside me-
-an involuntary cry of release as my climax powers the squirt of hot spunk from my cock and the nerves in my groin catch alight, radiating sensation to my limbs-
-louder and higher in tone as the fire spreads from my clit deep into my cunt and outwards, drenching my hand-
-lying back on the hard bed, panting and throbbing, still aswirl with sensation as my balls relax and the cum dries on my stomach-
The window snaps shut and my eyes open. I’m gasping and bemused in my own hallway, twitching with the aftershocks of my orgasm – definitely my own, there’s no longer any more to my body than my own trembling legs, throbbing cunt and pounding heart.
As I gradually subside onto the floor, I catch sight of the BeTogether instruction leaflet lying crumpled on the floor.
It says something about “broadcast mode”…..
……“any active BeTogether device within range….”
“…..setting a pairing security code is recommended….”
Carefully, I remove the headset and return it to its cocoon, close the box and scoop up the unwanted packaging. After a moment of deliberation, I hide the box at the back of my wardrobe with my seldom-used stilettos. I think I’ll leave it a while before I carry out my original plan of trying to work things out with Rob.
In the meantime….I wonder just how many other people in this tall apartment block have a BeTogether headset….
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All week, I have been out of sorts – irritable and uncharitable, my blood full of sharp burrs and my mind skittering from one grievance to the next. An evening of tequila shots with my lover in a London pub has smoothed out my most dangerous edges and mellowed my disposition considerably. Only a small smouldering coal of resentment at the world remains, tucked under my breastbone, partially smothered by the fun I’m having. It will take more than fun to extinguish this poisonous ember but I’m wary of intimacy while angry. There’s too much to fear. The risk of a short circuit between my internal rage and my masochistic, submissive need. The space between mind and body in which a gust of desire could reignite that sullen glow. I’m happier than I have been in days; why risk it? Smiles and tender kisses are my restorative tonic for now.
And yet……all the way home, amongst the chuckling and good-natured exchange of quips; something else is building between us. Something dark yet joyful, intense and intoxicating, which roughens his voice and prickles my skin. A drawstring of desire which tightens his hand on mine and pulls my gaze to his suddenly-intent eyes. He finds me irresistible; I am insatiable for his touch. There in the summer night it hums, arcing between us in sparks and pulses of want and need.
We hurry home.
In the lounge, we are playful as puppies. Still laughing, still romping. He falls at my feet, declares himself my slave, tickles my feet. I know he’s joking but I’m too much of a literal-minded pedant to allow it pass without comment. “I don’t want a slave” I remind him, grinning and jerking my foot away from his fingers. “I’m looking for a Master”
And with that, his eyes change and his posture straightens. “Put your foot out” he orders, and with a shiver of delight at his suddenly-authoritative tone, I comply.
The tickling recommences, light strokes of his fingernails against my sensitive soles, occasional scrabbling of pressure in the nerve-dense hollow of my instep. I’m battling my urge to yell and draw back; I’m very ticklish – but he has a firm grasp on my ankle and he’s testing my obedience to his will. My inner conflict between the impulse to flee this stimulus and the desire to submit to his control is showing on my face; pupils dilated and eyes wide, mouth twitching as I hold back the involuntary tickle-giggle.
He can see what this does to me; the way I’m looking at him drives hot blood into his cock, which is visibly swelling with every suppressed squirm transmitted through my muscle and sinew.
He stands. Hooks his thumbs into his shorts and pants, yanks them to his ankles. I’m halfway off the sofa already when he reaches for my tumbled curls and draws my mouth onto him. His half-moaned exhalation of pleasure triggers a hot flood of wetness from my cunt as I kneel before him and rub my tongue back and forth against his stiffening shaft.
I love to do this. His cock filling my mouth, his hands cradling my head, the rough carpet against my kneecaps; this is my favourite place to be. I look up and his eyes are closed, his mouth half-open, head tilted back as he loses himself in the sensations of my mouth around him.
I pull him slowly, deeper into my throat, working my tongue up and down, round and round. When I look again, he is watching me suck on his now stone-hard cock. As our eyes meet, he groans and I whimper; a simultaneous wave of aching lust at the other’s reaction sweeping over us both. His hands tighten around my head, it’s as though he can hear me thinking yes please, fuck my mouth, use me for your pleasure, that’s what I want, please give it to me. He does.
The harder and faster he thrusts, the more I urge him on; bobbing my head to his rhythm and bracing myself on my thighs for stability against this desperate, beautiful onslaught. I gag and he pulls away in concern, no, no, come back to me, fill me, have what you want.
I can’t go as fast as he needs now, he grabs a handful of my hair to pull my head away; taking charge of his cock with the other fist in powerful urgent strokes. I wait to be allowed to provide his pleasure again, mouth open, tongue extended, eyes locked on his. The sight of me pleading with my eyes and stance wrings another groan from him, he pulls my head close so that I can wind my tongue around and over his balls in slow figure-of-eight movements. When he pushes the head of his cock back between my lips, I thrill with adoration and submissive gratitude.
By the time we make it to the bedroom, I am all burning need and slick drenched cunt. Mental focus and submissive fulfilment have succeeded where drink and camaraderie could not – the last spike of bad mood has been crushed, ground to nothing between our close-pressed bodies. There is no irritation left, no silent rage, no phantom fire. Only us in this moment.
His dexterous fingers bring me to orgasm in minutes. I want him inside me; he wants to fill me with his come. We move together hard and fast; kneeling on the bed, leaning against the wall, face-down on the bed again, his hands pulling my buttocks apart as he fucks my arse with savage strokes, my face upturned to his as I mewl and moan the glorious pleasure-pain of my penetration. There’s a feedback loop between us, our movements, our breathing, our panted whispered encouragement is dragging us inseparably towards orgasm. We come together drowning in a wash of purest sensation that pulls a long moan of surrender from him and a shuddering, gasping collapse from me.
Tell me you want me. Tell me how you want me, and when, and where. Make it graphic, filthy, commanding – (and if you’re telling me in writing, please use apostrophes and correct verb conjugation).
More than pictures, more than sound, I love to read filth. I especially love to read well-written filth. Most of all, I adore well-written filth that’s directed specifically at me.
Top of the list of things that really turn me on is sexting. Not “u want cock?”-type teen/txtspk but literate descriptions of the things you’d like us to be doing right now, the positions you’re going to have me in next time we meet, or – best of all – a set of kinky instructions with an outline of the punishment I’ll receive if I don’t follow them. The absolute hottest thing you can say to me in a text is something along the lines of “when you get to my place, take off your clothes and kneel by the door with your eyes closed. No peeking“.
Second place is in the vicinity of “tonight, I’m going to spank you until you beg me to fuck you“. Impact and denial, mmmm.
I can even overlook the occasional typo if the conversation gets steamy enough.
You can send pictures if you like. I do like to drool over a consensual dick pic, in fact I’ll probably stare at it while frigging myself raw with something of similar dimensions from the toy cupboard. But just the pic on its own…..nah. There needs to be a narrative to go with it. Give me context to clench myself around.
I’ll send you pictures too. In fact, if you request (or better yet; demand) a certain pose or view, I’ll run to the nearest private space to rip off my clothes and give you the best angle I can find. All I ask is please; tell me all about your response when it arrives. If it makes you hard in the middle of a boring management meeting, tell me. If it gives you ideas for our next play session, definitely tell me.
Touch yourself and send me a picture of your fingers. I want to see how wet you are
Instantly guaranteed to make me wetter than a monsoon.
I want to watch you lick my cock clean after I’ve fucked you
Yes, that’s it. Tell me what you want. What you imagine. Tell me what you’re thinking and feeling. I don’t need to hear about me, I know about me – what I really need is to hear about you. Give me a window into your lust so I can peek into your darkest corners and enjoy the view.
I want to spread your legs and push my tongue deep inside you
Of course, when I am right there with you, I can watch your expression when you speak your threats and orders in the husky tones of arousal. I can see your eyes darken as I undress and touch your hardening cock for myself. The evidence is right there in front of me, no written narrative is needed. But sadly I don’t get to be present in person often enough for these precious moments to satisfy my ragingly lustful nature.