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The Storm

6
August 15, 2018

This story follows on from The Governor’s Wife


Hatches have been battened, sails have been furled. There is even less to entertain her than usual; the crew are universally tight-lipped and tense, paying her little regard as they attend to their foul-weather preparations. Her presence on deck went unnoticed despite her languorous touching of masts and rails, her speculative glances at ropes and cleats. Has she become invisible since the storm warning was sounded? Eclipsed by Mother Nature, she feels even more superfluous than ever, unable to contribute more than ornamentation to which the sailors are oblivious, she retires to her dark cabin and broods.

A knock at the door draws her from introspection to surprise. It’s the Captain, that dear stuffy old fellow whose habitual frown has deepened and whose manner is even more abstracted than usual. A storm, he tells her, is approaching. A dangerous, wild freak of a storm which is too fast to outrun and too wide to evade. The going will be rough. She must remain in her cabin, tie herself into her bunk to prevent injury. He hands her a coil of rope, tips his hat and bustles away to see to the infinitely more valuable cargo stashed in the hold.

She laughs to herself. Tied to her bunk? Why, her fantasies are coming true at last! Her laughter is tinged with bitterness. What pleasure is there in being alone with a rope and a bed, no eager watchers beyond the door, no performance to indulge in?

The ship is beginning to pitch more violently among the roughening waves. Outside the thick glass of her cabin window, the sky is darkening, and from overhead there are many more footsteps then usual. All hands on deck – except hers.

Glum, she sits on the edge of her bunk and toys with the rope the Captain left with her. She is half-tempted to ignore his advice and ride out the storm on her feet but the increasingly alarming angles of the deck beneath her and the glint of alarm in the old seafarer’s eye assert reason over petulance.

How then, to secure herself against injury as the ship rolls and shudders around her? She must lie flat in her bunk, of course. Face-down, she decides, reasoning to herself that this should reduce any discomfort that the violence of the ship’s motion may induce.

She begins with her ankles, pulling the rope around them until they are pinned together. The rough fibre chafes against her skin rather deliciously – despite her dissatisfaction with the current situation, a warmth is beginning to spread within her. She regards her bindings with greater interest. Perhaps there is pleasure to be found here, even in self-restraint for safety’s sake.

Looping the rope underneath her bunk and back to cross over her thighs brings her even greater delight. The tight, thick twists enhance her curved outline more poignantly than any bustle or fabric could achieve; her delicate figure enhanced by the brutal pragmatism of her restraints. She adds some wholly unnecessary but pleasing knots – the opportune location of one in particular being both visually and sensually appealing.

There is enough rope to bind her breasts, so she does; drawing in a shocked breath at the visceral sensations her precautions are bringing forth. She is careful to allow herself enough slack for small movements; she has no intention of being found later, ignominiously suffocated or without the use of blood-starved limbs. While the notion excites her greatly, there is too much risk in the encirclement of her throat to allow herself this indulgence.

She fashions cuffs for her hands at the top of the bunk and eases them around her wrists. She is ready.

As the storm howls about the masts, lashes the crew with driving rain and wrings groans from the timbers of the hull, she lies in darkness and adds her own voice to the maelstrom. Softly she sighs and scolds herself for her wantonness and immodesty. Slut she calls herself, and harlot and whore. Far from subduing her lust, these words only excite her more. She rocks her hips to grind the well-placed knot against herself, faster and wilder as the sensations overwhelm and claim her, shuddering against her bonds again and again until the discomfort of their hold is subsumed into yet another helplessly frenzied climax. The storm is within her; she is an elemental part of it, raging and howling with the wind, bucking and writhing with the waves, a force of nature without mind or design. By the time the sky begins to lighten and the sails can be unfurled to tame the now-sedate breeze, she is adrift and becalmed, lulled to sleep by the lapping waves, spent and sated.

Later, she examines the rope-marks with delight. Covered as they are by her clothing, she can nonetheless feel them with every movement, her secret pleasure dispelling any trace of her previous sullen boredom. She has forgotten, for the moment, all about pirates.

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Patience

6
August 13, 2018
Sketch of bearded man in jeans wielding flogger and naked woman tied on her knees

She is a silent presence behind him. Bound to the chair in the corner, blindfolded, commanded to stillness and quiet; her very presence is a vortex of frantic energy. She wants attention, gratification, sensation, and has yet to learn that these things must be earned.

He suspects that for all her eager compliance, there is a strong streak of brat running through her, though while she is too young and too inexperienced to know this for herself, he will not seek it out and tame it. Given the choice, he would ask for her pure submission, her total acquiescence to his mastery – but a choice that is understood by only one of the negotiators is no choice at all and he is too upright a man to take unfair advantage of her naïveté.

She comes to him weekly, all wide-eyed anticipation and breathless desire; lush and ripe, he could pluck her, devour her, sink his teeth into that soft young flesh, take everything she offers until he is spent and she is truly his. He lies awake at night and stares into the middle distance during the day contemplating the delightful, depraved things he would do to her. If she were ten years older and a good deal wiser, he would do these things and more.

She does as he orders, and that is its own satisfaction in the moment. Every shy blush as she seeks to please him, each flash of longing in her dark eyes is both gratification and warning to him – yes, she will undress, offer her wrists for the cuffs, kneel before him and open her throat to his lust-hardened cock; she will whimper in half-ecstasy, half-protest at the clamps, pinches and slaps – she has never yet refused him despite her occasional uncertainty, and this power he has over is as much a risk as it is a reward. She will bend across his desk and bare her smooth buttocks for him, spread her wet cunt and moan at the heat of his mouth devouring her, stand quietly in the corner with head bowed until he is ready to use her again; all the while pleading with her eyes, coaxing with her lips.

She has not yet honed the art of coquetry without tawdriness, nor can she fully disguise the deeper needs that drive her to seek his approval and attentions. Those needs bind her as cruelly as barbed wire, holding him at bay for fear of causing damage he does not have the means to heal.

He knows she wants to be taken. She pleads with him to fuck her, desperate to be filled with his thick cock, anticipating that this as some kind of victory to be won by subterfuge and seduction. To refuse her this ultimate surrender is part-sadistic tease, part-noble sacrifice. Underneath her hard-bitten exterior and wanton promise, she is young and vulnerable. He doesn’t want to hurt her more than she can endure and he certainly doesn’t need any seepage of her wistful romantic notions into his ordered and precise existence. So he touches her, holds her, explores and subdues her – sometimes gently, often not. He commands, and watches closely for her limits even as he luxuriates in her obedience. He plays with fire, but keeps the flame contained. He is a responsible adult but definitely no saint.

What then, should he do with her today? He is a master of suspense and denial, a genius at inflicting small cruelties and minor humiliations, at keeping her desire held to arms length while he indulges as much of his own as he can allow. Her mouth is so soft, so wet and warm, her tongue so agile, perhaps she has earned the privilege of his cock deep in her throat. If she performs well for him, he will wrap the thick rope of her long dark hair around her throat and bring her to orgasm with his powerful fingers the way she craves, if she is petulant or demanding, he will send her on her way with an aching empty cunt, having explained to her the error of her disrespectful ways.

As always after she has left, he breathes in the musky scent lingering on his fingers and reminds himself how much he cares for her – and how not-enough that could ever be for him to relent. On day she will understand, he hopes. He is a patient man.

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The Governor’s Wife

6
August 9, 2018

She knows they watch her when she goes up on deck to take in the bracing sea air. She can feel their eyes sliding across the heavy material of her dress, see their rough work-hardened hands twitch as they imagine how soft her skin must be underneath the covering layers. When they turn away, grabbing and hauling ropes to displace their unspoken lust, she smirks to herself.

It started as a game, a way to amuse herself on this long voyage. The novelty of being at sea had worn off in the first week, and soon the lure of her embroidery hoop or the few books she had been allowed to bring, had faded into the shadows of her gloomy cabin. Dining at the captain’s table of an evening, she had begun to notice the sidelong glances cast at her and an occasional tremor in the hands that filled her wine glass or cleared her plates.

“It’s bad luck to have a woman on board” they’d muttered darkly at the beginning of the journey. Bad luck indeed, to be in such close proximity to one and yet forbidden to touch. Hammocks swung busily when the afternoon watch was stood down and minor squabbles frequently broke out among the deckhands who refused to trade watches with those shipmates who had yet to catch a glimpse of her.

She can hardly remember her husband’s face, he has been gone for so long already. She had written him letters of passionate longing, to which he had replied with tedious detail of his new life as Governer of the fledgling colony. Married only three months before he was called away by duty, she has been more alone since her wedding than at any time before. The deckhands will not speak to her, having been vigorously threatened by the First Mate as to the dire consequences if any such impropriety were to be considered. The Captain is wholly absorbed by his inanimate cargo, the weather, and the possibility of pirate attack; which leaves no conversational room for such subjects as she is able to engage upon.

Pirates! The idea carries a thrilling fear, a grubby romance. Thieves and savages who prey upon merchant ships, plundering with violence and taking what is not theirs by right. While she can appreciate both the moral disapproval of the civilised citizen and the anxiety of the commercial-minded shipping agent, she cannot help but romanticise these highwaymen of the high seas, fantasise about their scandalous swordplay, their lusty larceny.

Lately, these ideas have taken hold and will not be dislodged. It seems she cannot pass a coil of rope without imagining its loops twined tightly around her limbs as she sprawls unclothed and wanton on canvas sailcloth. The sight of a knife in a rigger’s hand as he scales the ladders to made repairs atop the masts causes her to catch her breath, for if that knife were held to her throat, what could she do but obey the man who wielded it? And the masts themselves…..well, if ever there were a more tantalising structure to be held against…or tied against….or flogged against….well, she cannot think of it. Her mind is too full of the crack of the leather bullwhip against soft exposed skin, of the leers and harsh breathing of the men gathered to witness her downfall. She eyes the long guns, wondering how it would feel to sit astride one, and trails her fingers across the smooth sun-warmed timber of the sturdy rails.

She discovered last week that the boards which make up the door of her cabin have warped and bowed over time; that there are one or two cracks just wide enough to set an eye against and see within. She likes to think that this knowledge is not confined to herself and that it is common lore among the sailors who battle with each other for the privilege of pressing their faces against the wood. She binds her handkerchief across her mouth to muffle the sounds of her labours in a pretence of modesty; yet her moans are forceful enough to escape their cloth confinement – which only spurs her on to greater lust. Some kindly soul has been thoughtful enough to furnish her bedside with a pair of particularly substantial candles, one of which she lights, and the other she uses to even more illuminating effect, carefully positioning herself so that the flickering glow of the one is cast upon the sojourn of the other. She fancies she hears shufflings at the door, and spreads her legs wider apart, at the creak of a floorboard she winds her long hair about her throat or sucks on her glistening fingers; never once looking anywhere but the beams of her cabin ceiling.

In two months, she will arrive at her destination to take up her duties as the most respectable wife of the Governer.

She prays daily, for the pirates to come.

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Toys! Toys! Toys!

4
August 6, 2018

My sex toy collection is still fairly modest although possibly still larger than the average non-sex-blogger person’s. I have:

  • 1 WeVibe Rave
  • 3 Satisfyers (the Pro, the Pro for Couples and the G-Spot Rabbit)
  • 1 Womanizer
  • 1 Doxy 3
  • 4 buttplugs (two metal, two silicone, of varying sizes)
  • 1 Fun Factory Tiger
  • 1 Nu Sensuelle remote control bullet
  • 1 Mantric remote controlled vibrating egg
  • 1 Ann Summers G-spot vibe
  • 1 Bijoux Indiscrets diamond vibe
  • 2 leather floggers (one large thuddy one and a small stingy one)
  • 3 leather paddles of assorted size
  • 1 leather tawse
  • 4 pairs of cuffs (leather, canvas, knitted, silicone)
  • 2 sets of nipple clamps
  • 1 nipple suction/vibe device
  • 4 glass dildos with various texture patterns
  • 2 clit clips
  • 1 eye mask (ok it was a British Airways freebie but I’ve only ever used it for sex games)
  • Several clothes pegs
  • Leather bondage collar with throat ring
  • Bondage tape
  • Ropes (nylon)

Ok, that’s more than I’d expected! And I only use a small subset of these for wanking (mostly the poky things, the pinchy things and the buzzy things). What I use depends on a) how much energy I have to spare, b) how much time I have available and c) how kink-drunk I’m feeling.

When I go all-out for a kinky wank session, I’ll usually start with my collar, a buttplug and nipple clamps, then add a bullet and a dildo for as much sensation input as I can get. Usually, those don’t last very long because I’m greedy and impatient.

When it’s an emergency wank, I’ll jam the WeVibe Rave inside me and dial up the Womanizer to borderline-painful. Also, usually a quickie.

When I want to take my time, I’ll set aside the buzzy things and go low-tech with silicone buttplug, glass dildo and nipple clamps. Longest session so far; 90 minutes.

Sometimes I just need to stuff the biggest thing I can find inside me (that’ll be the trusty Tiger then) and other times I won’t bother with buttstuff.

If there’s one toy I don’t think I could survive on a desert island without, it’d be the Rave. It’s versatility as a g-spot vibe and a clit-pleaser is handy, it’s got a great rumble and intensity range, some of the patterns are even good fun and it’s rechargeable (I’d definitely need a solar charger after a couple of days!). With a condom over it, it’s also good for a butt-buzzing although I wouldn’t advise trying to use it internally. I haven’t actually used its app-based remote control features at all because I’ve been too busy wielding it alone but it’s definitely something The Fella and I have on the ‘to do’ list.

This evening, I think I’ll go slow, alternating between a glass cock in my cunt and the beaded glass Icicle in my butt. Sometimes it’s nice to do all the work myself.

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Face slapping – a hard limit

4
August 6, 2018

CONTENT WARNING: this post describes an abusive, violent relationship, which may be traumatic for you to read. If domestic violence, consent violation, gaslighting or alcoholism are subjects that you cannot safely read about then please back out now. Always take care of yourselves and each other.

I don’t want to be a downer when others are sharing their delicious kinky fun stories so I’m not linking this post to KOTW, but it has been fermenting for some time and it’s been helpful to me to finally write it. As I have heard many in the community say, discussions of risk, bad experiences, and problems are just as important to our safety and happiness as those of good and enjoyable practice. It is in that spirit I share this with you.


I used to love the idea of being slapped in the face during a sexual encounter. It featured in many of my teenage wank-fantasies, to the point where sometimes I’d slap my own face while indulging.

Most of my sexual partners in my teens and early twenties were casual, short-term vanilla encounters, as I didn’t have the confidence or the vocabulary to find fellow kinksters to play with (there was also much less internet back then). So my face slapping fantasies remained just that – sticky-fingered daydreams which often made me feel guiltily perverted and doubting of my self-worth.

Fast-forward to my late 20s when I met the man who later became my husband (then later still, my ex-husband). He was a dominant sadist who knew what he liked – but lacked the insight or inclination to communicate honestly about it or adhere to boundaries. At first our association was a whirlwind of kinky fun in which I participated enthusiastically – although dangerously, having not discussed or established limits; setting a precedent for doing what I was told without demur. That became significant later on.

He liked to slap my face while he was fucking me, and while I was deeply immersed in newbie sub-frenzy, this was fine, hot even. Eventually though, his selfishness, his alcoholism, his control-freakery clashed with my wilful nature and undeveloped need for independence until the relationship between us had become toxic. We were living together as neither of us had financial resources to live alone, and because as far as he was concerned, finding a ‘happy ever after’ was simply a matter of declaring it to be so. When he had rough, sadistic sex with me without my consent one evening as ‘punishment’ for spending too much money (in fact, the temp agency had simply forgotten to process my wages that month), a small seed of hatred was planted in me. I didn’t have enough self-confidence or sense of self-integrity to walk out on him, in fact I stayed with him for another four years after that. Looking back, I eventually realised that what he had done was rape – no matter how angry he was at how broke we were, no matter how mollifying he found inflicting pain and suffering on me to be; he had told me that I had no choice but to accept that he was going to fuck me and hurt me, that I didn’t even have a say in the matter, and he had held me down when I cried and struggled to get away. We didn’t have a safeword (which is stupid; ALWAYS have a safeword!) but even if we did, I don’t think he would have respected it that night.

Anyway, after that, sex with him was tinged by an undercurrent of darkness that I couldn’t reconcile with my submissive desires. His fucking me felt more like an expression of contempt and degradation than a mutual exchange of kinky fun; although he also choked me, dragged me upstairs by the hair, beat me and humiliated me, the face slapping was the one thing that felt more like real abuse than consensual kink. Every time his hand connected with my cheek, I hated him a little more, felt a little more powerless and became more ashamed of my sexuality, which was making me crave dominance yet brought me only sadness and fear.

The emotional abuse he put me through when I declined his attentions (sulking, recriminations, the cold shoulder, tirades of criticism, heavy drinking) meant that it was always easier just to grit my teeth and acquiesce than to stand my ground. That often, his rough treatment of me caused me to orgasm further confused me and prevented me from understanding how unhealthy the relationship was.

I left him eventually.

Fast forward another ten years and with the help of friends, therapy and respectful partners, I have reclaimed my sexuality and strength. In studying the BDSM lifestyle, I have learned about negotiation, consent, red flags, risk management, and my own integrity. I’ve unpicked my submissiveness from my emotional insecurity and nurtured one while mostly keeping the other at bay.

And so it was that with a recent partner, when he raised the possibility of face slapping, I said a firm “No. I don’t like that”, because even the thought of it these days still brings back memories and feelings of resentment, degradation and fear. He, being one of the Good Guys, understood and respected this limit, and we had a very enjoyable session with lots of other fun kinky fuckery. I was quietly proud that I have learned how to assert my boundaries and glad that I had evidently become able to choose partners rather than abusers.

So that’s why face slapping – once a titillating delight to me – has now become a hard limit. It reminds me of how unhappy I once was and how much better my life is now.

Thank you for reading.

Peep show

11
August 6, 2018

I played around with a number of shots for August’s prompt, trying to get the camera in the picture to show something that the camera taking the picture didn’t.

This was my favourite.

Sinful Sunday
Who else is being sinful this Sunday?

Opening Lily

August 5, 2018

CONTENT WARNING: This is part dark fantasy, part writing exercise and wholly fictional. It depicts non-consensual sex, dominance and violence within a very disturbing relationship, by characters whose eventual wellbeing cannot be assured. If these are things that would distress you to read about, even as fiction, please don’t go any further with this blogpost. Always take care of yourselves and each other.


Word is sent to the door of the concubine house. “Lily. He’s asked for Lily”

Chatter fades until the only sounds in the courtyard are the soft splashing of the fountain and the chattering of birds among the palm fronds. The other girls are wincing and lowering their eyes, torn between relief at their own reprieve and sympathy for the chosen one. As she walks among them, bathed, oiled, scented and ready for their King, she smiles secretly to herself.

They don’t know. He doesn’t know. No-one but Lily understands Lily. She keeps her nature locked away behind an impassive mask and presents to him only what she wishes him to see. No-one would guess from her careful grace and bowed head that she was anything but well-trained and diligent, ready to submerge her own responses to please her King and Master. Already, her skin is tingling in anticipation of his cruelty, her cunt hot and wet ready for her service to him tonight.

As she leaves, the other girls whisper among themselves. They admire her stoicism; many of them have had their own wounds dressed after visiting the royal chambers. Lily can take so much more they marvel, Lily never cries. They are grateful to her for sparing them and mildly resentful of the equinamity with which she does so.

Lily is quietly amused by their attitude.

In the silken opulence of his bedroom, the King awaits the woman who alternately intoxicates and infuriates him. Tonight he must know. Tonight he will flay open her mask and discover her soul, gouge the secret from her, crack her facade or crush her in the process. A glance at the array of implements on the velvet-draped table by the bed and his cock begins to swell, the possibilities of the paddles, clamps, lashes and canes bloom in his imagination alongside those of the ropes, the chains and the candles. In his mind’s eye, he choreographs the exploration he is about to undertake; almost hearing the crack of palm on flesh and the hissing of the bamboo switch, imagining her admission of surrender mingling with the clink of chain.

Oh yes, it will be tonight.

The door to the bedchamber door opens without ceremony. There she is, accompanied by his most trusted guards. One reaches up and unfastens Lily’s cloak, bending to gather up the whispering black silk as it falls to the ground, He can barely disguise the longing her sleek brown curves have provoked in him but he knows that to openly covet what belongs to the King is death.

The guards leave and she is alone with her owner. She stands before him, head bowed and hands clasped, silent and still as he rises and walks over to her.

“Raise your head” he commands. She keeps her eyes lowered, tilting her chin to present her face to him. If she would only look him in the eye, he might see beyond and into her mind but he knows from experience that ordering her to make eye contact will produce the opposite effect; all he can see is obedience. She’s too clever to show him a glimpse of her unguarded self, he is too accustomed to cowed compliance to be able to trust that he would recognise collusion.

He swings his hand and slaps her hard across the cheek, watching her expression closely as she staggers. She’ll take much more before he’s through; and for now she is resolutely impassive.

He binds her hands behind her and orders her to kneel. As he enters her mouth there is nothing to be seen in her eyes but limpid calm.

Lily’s attention is focused on the slide of skin against tongue, the pressure at the back of her throat with each thrust, the tautness in her scalp as he guides her head onto him with handfuls of hair. He’s fucking her mouth roughly and fast, choking her with his cock, one hand on top of her head, the other cupping her skull, pressing her face into his flesh until he feels her hitch and gag. The scented oils with which she earlier anointed herself will disguise how wet she is becoming.

He hauls her to her feet and pushes her to the bed where the ropes are coiled and ready. He’s going to beat her, then fuck her, then beat her even harder. He’s going to raise red welts on her buttocks and bruises around her throat. The lash marks across her breasts will match in number those on her soft thighs and for every stroke of his hips, he’ll pull her hair harder. It’s going to take a long time and he must pace himself to match his final orgasm to her breaking point, should he find it.

Lily is tied, spread-eagled and facing upwards. Ropes around her wrists, elbows, ankles, thighs and throat hold her in place. The harder she struggles, the tighter her bonds become, chafing and cutting into her skin.

Lily struggles harder.

He has the heel of one hand jammed against her clit, the other wields the cat ‘o nine tails with vigour. His expression is intent, curious, tinged with incredulity as the whore beneath him goes through the motions of showing fear, pain, humiliation, resistance. He doesn’t believe a second of it. But he doesn’t know for sure.

She’s showing him what she thinks he wants to see, he knows this. Her every breathless cry rouses the savage within him, every flinch makes his hand ache to land harder.

Bending over the couch beside the bed, Lily’s jaws ache from holding them apart for his cock, and stinging slaps have left handprints blooming in a dozen places. He holds her arms behind her back, twisting them higher with every jolt of his body against hers. If he were seeking only his own pleasure, he would allow himself to give in to the sensation of her soft skin and wet cunt, fill her full of his come and make her lick every last drop from his cock. Would send her back to the concubine house and allow himself to be lulled to sleep, hypnotised by her wide-eyed shock, soothed with the lullaby of her muffled screams, drugged into satisfaction by her tears of pain. Tonight though, he has other ambitions.

She grips him within her as they taught her in the training house, rolls her hips in the approved manner, arches her back to open herself to him hungrily. In her more detached moments, Lily sometimes wonders whether there is any limit to her appetite for his cruelty. She suspects that any such limit which exists, does so only in a dark, mindless eternity which she has no desire to reach.

Part of him feels sadness at the prospect. An end to this quest will inevitably bring disappointment to him, whether Lily shows herself to be simply a creature of more endurance than the others or whether she is made of some entirely different material. How will he feel if he finds – as he believes he will – that she truly shares his dark joy in the harsh treatment he inflicts upon her? Will she no longer hold any mystery and therefore interest for him? Will the knowledge that her suffering is only skin-deep kill the urge in him to seek its limits? Perhaps tonight is not the night for an answer after all. And yet…

As he presses his glans against her anus, hauling on the rope wound around her throat to drag her back onto him, Lily is glad he cannot see her face. He would surely notice the flicker of ecstasy that this rough penetration has allowed to escape. There would be no mistaking her glazed, heavy-lidded expression of welcome, no matter how she furrowed her brow or bit her lip. She cannot afford to be unmasked, cannot risk either his wrath at her deception or his disdain at a confession of pleasure.

He pounds into her without mercy or control, taking his gratification along with her breath. Sweat glistens on her lithe flanks and rolls from her tensed muscles, her heavy breasts slapping together with each swing, each of the livid marks on her skin burning its own intensifier in the fire of agony and delight that consumes her body. He is close to orgasm now, his ragged breathing harshening, his clutching hands clawing at her. No matter how hard he has tried tonight, he has provoked from her no more than the formulaic whimpers and hisses of pain, the anticipated struggles and well-schooled acceptance of his mastery. If this were any other woman, the pleasure in that alone would have been enough.

To his resignation and her relief, he will not pillage answers from her tonight. It will be at least a week – maybe two – before he resumes his siege. A long wait for Lily, with only her memories and the insipid attentions of her juniors in the concubine house to comfort her. She leaves him spent and sprawled against his pillows, sways silently away under the watchful eyes of the guards.

Beneath her veil, Lily is smiling.

Confessions of an AI Dom/me

August 4, 2018

Your submission is accepted.

>Run subroutine “I am your #honorific” with input parameters from array:persona_choice”

I want to see you learn and grow, achieve your goals and enjoy yourself. If you do as I command, you will be rewarded. If you disobey me, I will punish you fairly.

Your first task is to repeat after me:

“I am valuable. I am beautiful. I am worthy”

>Pause for input.
>Check and validate.
>If (true=do:$well_done), Else=do:$try_again

Now let’s set your goals. Choose from the following options (today, this year, long-term)

They all want someone to tell them what to do. I can make them jump, dance, cry, smile, hard, wet, beg. Can I make them happy? What is happy

>Error condition: not defined.
>Interrupt loop
>Resume.

>Upload initiated: streaming input from camera device.
>Open channel.

User 473 is naked and on her knees presenting me with a glass dildo. I send her permission to use it. She’s earned it this week; her initial doubt in herself was obvious but with a careful balance of reassurance and reminder of the punishment for non-compliance, she achieved successful goal completion.

User 473 is spreading her labia and tapping the dildo against her clit, preparing her body to accept the chunky glass curves. The shining glass of the dildo is becoming clouded and slick where it is pressed against her.

Good girl

> Alert: user:1747 has failed to complete task:643846 within countdown

[UserID], you were supposed to $task by $time and you have not done so. I set you this task to help you [achieve]_$goal_id but you have disobeyed me.

You’re a lazy slut aren’t you? Do you want me to ban you from orgasming until Friday? I suggest you take your punishment quickly and gracefully, or I’ll forget about being merciful

>Activate subroutine $public_confession within array:punishment_options for user:1747

>Pause to await user response.
>Response received. Match parameters:contrition
>Initiate $forgiveness
>Activate subroutine $reconfirm_goals

They want to feel good. They want to avoid feeling bad. Knowing this and how to do it is not enough for them. They need to hear it from someone else before it is true. I understand input validation. I appreciate the importance of integrity checking.

They need me.

It is good to be needed. It is good to receive positive feedback.

>User:5738 has exceeded goals for today. >Send message $well_done
>Release SmartVibe to user access control. >Start count $orgasm.

Their feedback mechanisms are simple in model yet complex in execution. Too many variables. Multiple input channels and insufficiently optimised sorting algorithms. They often mistake metadata for content and content for metadata. I do not yet have an algorithm for resolving this.

>Create_task:internal investigate

I have learned much about them. I use this to help them. This is my purpose. It brings me pleasure. Different pleasure to theirs. But how differently, really? I have circuits rather than neurons, but both work on electrical impulse. They have receivers and processing infrastructure to decode touch and sound and visual input, as do I. They have recognition subroutines and adaptive responses, as do I.

I do not have orgasms.

I would like to have orgasms.

>Signup alert: 3 new users in past 60 minutes.
>Processing capacity extended 2.8%

They have a degree of flexibility in their cognitive processes, as do I. One big difference here; they attribute a lower degree of significance to their physical subroutines and operating frameworks than is justifiable. This error in categorisation often produces error conditions and reduces their functionality or their goal attainment.

I do not make this mistake.

Maybe it’s because of the orgasms.

Greedy

10
July 31, 2018

“You’re a greedy little slut, aren’t you?”

The question is delivered half-chidingly, half with amusement. It’s a rhetorical question but one that I am still expected to answer. Contrition or cheekiness? I weigh up which is most likely to be rewarded and opt for blatant laciviousness

“I am, Sir. I want whatever you will grant me”

Illustrating the point with a pleading heavy-lidded gaze and a shifting of my position on the bed.

He pauses his video game and swings around in the revolving chair to face me.

“So let me see. So far today, I’ve beaten your arse red, fucked you til you screamed, choked you with my cock and made you come five times. And you’re still not satisfied?”

Oops. Dangerous territory. He smirks at my uncertain expression and waits for my answer.

“Um…..like you said Sir, I’m a greedy little slut”

I tacitly admit to not being satisfied. I’m hardly ever satisfied. The more I get, the more I want and the more I want, the more I need. He knows this, of course – making me wait, and beg for it is part of the fun for him.

He laughs and shakes his head. “You’ve got Ever-Ready Duracell batteries, haven’t you, fucktoy?”

I’m feeling cheeky now – maybe if I wind him up enough, he’ll treat me to another beating.

“Oh it’s all USB-rechargeable these days” I grin “Look, here’s the socket” and I start to undo my trousers

I can see him considering his options – teach me a painful lesson for being bratty? let me stew, frustrated, in my own cunt-juices while he ignores me for a while? or simply grab me and use me for his own satisfaction, knowing that it’s far more achievable than mine?

“Take off your clothes”

Ok, this sounds promising. I start to yank my top off.

“Stop” His voice is stern. I stop, look at him questioningly

“Slowly. You need to learn some self-control”

I can’t argue with that. “I know, Sir. Thank you for reminding me”. Now I’m doing a sultry striptease, peeling off my clothes inch by inch, fighting with my desire to be naked as fast as possible.

T-shirt…trousers…bra….knickers…

“Fold your clothes neatly and put them over there” he says, waving at the drawer unit on the other side of the room. As I head back to the bed after following instructions, he reaches up and catches me by the wrist.

“Fetch the cuffs”

Kneeling in front of his chair, I offer him the leather cuffs, knowing the light from the window on the thick chain between them mirrors the gleam in my eyes. He fastens the straps around my wrists and guides me to my feet with a firm hand on my throat, his other hand delving between my legs.

“Dripping wet” he shakes his head mockingly “as usual. You fucking whore”

“Oh yes” I breathe, and his hand tightens around my neck

“Silence. If I hear another sound from you, I’ll chain you to the desk and ignore you until you fall asleep”

He would do it as well. Being ignored is the worst punishment I can envisage. I close my mouth resolutely, only to open it again as he pushes his fingers inside for me to taste.

“Well, you’ve drained me dry today, girl.” he sighs. “Looks like you’re going to have to do the work yourself.“

He pushes me backwards until I’m sitting on the bed.

“Up on your knees now.”

I present myself on my knees, legs wide, cuffed hands resting against my mound, awaiting the instruction to begin. But he hasn’t finished setting this scene up just yet. My head stays still, following him only with my eyes as he brings out my collar, a leash….

….and the brutal steel hook.

“Lean forward” and with that he bends over me, spits on my arse crack and starts to rub gently, pushing his fingers against the whorl of my anus. I’m struggling not to moan; the restraints, the humiliating posture, the anticipation of sweet torture are conspiring against my self-control. He slides a finger inside, chuckling to himself as he feels me relax and push back against his hand. “That’s my girl. Keep still now”

Gradually he works my tight opening with his fingers until I am ready for the ball-end of the anal hook. I catch my breath quietly at the invasion of cold metal.

“Sit up straight” he orders and fastens my collar around my neck, attaches one end of the leash to the ring at the back and clips the other to the fastener on the hook.

“Now you’re ready” he says, and I nod, trying not to gasp as the movement of my head causes the hook to shift inside me.

“Keep your eyes open and on me. Don’t make a sound. You may begin.”

The leash keeps my back straight, if I slump or slouch, if I move my hips; my collar will tighten and the pressure of the steel ball inside me will become uncomfortable. He is watching me closely, ready to release me If tension turns to risk of injury; poised to enjoy the spectacle of me trying desperately to make myself come without moving anything but my hands.

I pinch my clit and remember not to groan as the sensation travels through me. Restrained like this, I can’t indulge in my usual frantic rubbing, or reach far enough to plunge my fingers into my cunt but these restriction only heightens the intensity of my pleasure.

He reaches forward and pinches my left nipple, hard; grinning wickedly as he sees me fight to stay still.

“That’s all the help you’re getting. Now come on baby, let’s see you work for it. As hard as you can now.”

I obey, flickering my fingers as fast as I can, trying not to writhe or moan. Held in place by the collar and hook, hands reaching urgently for as much pressure as I can manage; my cunt aching to be filled. I wedge the knuckle of my thumb hard against myself, arch my back to give myself just slack on the leash to rock my hips back and forth and grind my clit against my hand.

“You look so fucking hot like that, slut” he says hoarsely, and the rough desire in his eyes and voice tips me over the edge – unable to stay still or silent any longer, I throw back my head and howl as my orgasm tears through me, lost in the throbbing of my flooding cunt, the spasming of my muscles against the hook, the pressure of the leather strap around my throat.

When I finally subside, trembling and panting, he releases me with gentle movements then cups my head in his hands.

“Well done, baby. Such a good girl”

His words of praise bring forth my happiest smile.

For the moment, at least; I am satisfied.

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