I like to be bitten. Is it an actual kink of mine? I don’t think so. I don’t fantasise about being bitten, specifically. It’s not something I’d ask for if it wasn’t happening. I do enjoy a bite or twenty – whether gentle nibbles at my ears, neck and nipples; or a toothsome chomp on my buttocks, thighs and breasts, but I wouldn’t feel deprived if such attentions were not forthcoming. So it’s an enjoyable optional kinky extra rather than a driving sexual need (such as bondage or impact play is) to me.
I’m a physical masochist, many kinds of pain sensation either cause me direct sexual arousal or simply stir up endorphins for an enjoyable rush. The added intimacy of having that pain applied from straight the mouth of another person is a subversive enhancement. The proximity, the understanding that a piece of me is inside part of them, under their control and at their mercy. That; as much as the pain, is what I enjoy.
I like to bite too. Not in a sadistic or dominating way – that’s not my thing at all. But to scrape my teeth lightly over warm skin or to feel a yielding roll of flesh held gently between them, there’s something very satisfying and sensual about that.
I’ve been known to distribute the odd sharp nip of disapproval as well. While I take no pleasure in causing pain, sometimes that is a highly effective method of communication.
But all things considered, I’d rather take a huge greedy bite out of a cream cake or a pizza than another person.
Uhuh. Now we’re back on track. This is something I can write about with enthusiasm, whether fiction or fact.
Tonight she is slave. Not Sarah, wife and mother. Not the pharmaceutical lab tech. Not humblesub69. Just slave.
She kneels in the centre of the studio floorspace, knees spread wide with her weight on her heels. Palms upturned on her thighs and head bowed. Her only adornment is her collar, although she will likely be wearing a variety of accessories this evening. Some of them will hurt.
She knows I hate housework. It’s boring, repetitive, messy, hard work and it keeps on needing to be done, a never ending treadmill racing to keep up with dust, smears, clutter, stuff.
I asked her to help me be more diligent about my domestic duties – left to my own devices, I’m the worst kind of filthy slob, an overgrown teenager picking her way through unwashed mugs, discarded knickers and scraps of paper.
I should have factored in her sadistic side. Tasks, rewards and punishments; my mind didn’t go any further than that when I made the request. Oops, my bad.
So here I am, unclothed and chained by my collar to her wrist as she leads me around our home and stands over me while I perform my tasks.
It’s humiliating, uncomfortable and all kinds of hot.
“I could get used to this” she observes with amusement while I strain upwards to push cobwebs from ceiling corners with my feather duster without choking myself. Her hand slides down the tensed muscles of my back, and down further to rest on my quivering buttocks. I sweep diligently, jumping only slightly as she taps the jewelled end of the plug. I hear the smirk in her tone.
“You’re not working hard enough” she chides when I take a quick pause from stacking our shoes in the rack by the front door. It’s true. Her commanding presence is the only thing standing between this dreary task and my idle nature. I’ll do it for her because she’s doing it for me, and in doing so is clearly having much more fun than I.
“Tea break” she announces, once the bathroom is gleaming. In the kitchen, she releases me from the chain, settles herself at the table and leans back in her chair, legs crossed.
“I’m only letting you go so that you can reach the kettle” she informs me dryly. “Off you go. Make the tea”.
Tea made, I carry our mugs to the table, only be to be stopped short once I’ve set them down. A firm slap to the left buttock.
“Oh no pet, you’re not sitting here at the table with me! Not until you’ve completed your chores. If you want your tea, you can drink it down there on the floor.”
I sit. She hands me my mug carefully to avoid dripping the scalding hot liquid on me. Fierce, and sadistic she may be, but she’d never allow any harm to come to me. She likes to hurt me, but only on our agreed terms.
The tea is a welcome restorative.
I only have the washing-up to finish and I’m done. An unfamiliar housepride fills me, flowing from the neat corners and bright reflections of tidy clean surfaces.
I hate washing up. She knows it too, which is why she’s left it til last for maximum amusement at my expense. With her standing behind me, flicking at my naked rear with a damp tea towel, pulling my hair sharply every time I allow myself to become distracted; it’s a wonder I don’t break any of the glasses or plates – I’m quite relieved when I finish the last item; I didn’t want to disappoint her by making a mess of this.
“Good girl” and the warm approval in her voice is worth every minute of effort. “Time for your reward” she announces with a tug on my chain. “Upstairs. Bedroom.”. If I weren’t so tired from all this hard work, I’d scamper. I manage a reasonably enthusiastic pace nonetheless, and she settles me back on the double bed we share.
She takes the imposing strap-on harness from the bedside drawer and buckles it around herself, grinning at me. That’s my cue. I open my mouth wide and savour the smooth salted-caramel taste of the lube-coated dildo as she holds my head and slowly fucks my mouth with it. She’s watching me intently, enjoying my arousal, feeding her own.
Lexicon is my lechery
I do like a big one –
vocabulary, that is
catch me with clever conversation,
capture with candour and clarity
enthralled by erudition, I remain,
(faithfully, your humble servant)
retained with ropes of repartee
spoken to salaciously;
seeking satisfaction in scribings
DM me your dirty mind;
your depraved musings
whisper wickedness to make me whimper
talk titillates, discourse is desire
I am wanton with words, kibbitz your kinks
let us luxuriate in libraries of lust
narrating our novel of naughty and nice
scrolling through sin and paging perversions
meet me with mastery of metaphor
and dominance of dictionary
and I’ll be yours
That’s it. Grab it, a good handful now. Twist it round your fist. Control me. Hurt me.
Hair-pulling is one of those things that I mostly have to indulge in through fantasy more than practice, because there’s too much of a risk that I’ll dislocate, or subluxate or strain something, which would take all the pleasure out of it very quickly.
Another joker! Prompt #10 is ‘Daddy Kink’ and that’s not one that floats my [lone] boat[man] (fnar), so I’m taking another substitution. Maybe one day I’ll be able to write convincingly about things that aren’t in my own kink gallery, but right now I’m having too much fun writing about things that are.
Today’s prompt was “branding” and that’s definitely not one of my kinks (nothing wrong with it between consenting adults of course, just doesn’t do anything for me) so I couldn’t really think of anything to write about it. Instead, I’m playing one of the jokers – something I have always wanted to experience and fantasise about frequently.
Spit-roasting, with its connotations of gluttony and primitivism; myself as nourishment and celebration, as sacrifice and utility.
A choice, perhaps; between the carnal and the alimentary….
My orgasms come relatively easily, quickly and in multiples. Because of this, I don’t value them as much as I might – while pleasurable and desirable, they are often commonplace and functional – rarely the Earth-moving fireworks display that fiction has programmed the modern woman to expect – even demand. I’m hopeless at self-denial, only managing once to hold off for any length of time while playing solo – a wholly gratifying experience but one I have not yet had the self-discipline to revisit. I know that if I back off at the last minute enough times, the release when I finally get there is intensified to the near pyrotechnic point I mentioned earlier. I’m just too greedy and impatient to bother.
CW: this post describes disturbing feelings and harm-related imagery. Please, if that will distress you, don’t read any further. Always take care of yourselves and each other.
I had a difficult end to my day. Things got away from me. I panicked.
Panic, for me, manifests as anger. In fact, most disturbances to my emotional stability become anger at some point, whether as waypoint or destination. I’ve learned to recognise it for what it, although getting a grip on it still eludes me.
Max’s tone is stern, his face set. Only the slight deepening of the creases around his eyes betrays his intention. This is a game he plays, a game that Latisha enjoys very much. He points to a spot on the floor in front of him. “Now.”
She carries on buffing her nails, giving every outward appearance of indifference. “Busy” she throws over her shoulder, locking down the grin of anticipation which twitches at the corner of her purple-painted lips.
I haven’t been blogging for very long – although I seem to have managed to produce quite a bit of writing in the less-than-12-months since I started. In that time, I’ve been bolstered and encouraged by the likes, comments and mentions that kind people have bestowed upon me, and participated enthusiastically in various memes and prompts.
It’s such a sensitive spot. Hidden, tucked away from all but the most intimate of perspectives, a convergence of tightly-gathered muscle and nerves awaits.
There is so much to enjoy about sensory deprivation. For myself, as a submissive; the element of handing over control to someone else and making myself vulnerable, is all kinds of delicious.
It was with great enthusiasm then, that I participated in the sensory deprivation workshop at Kinkfest, earlier this year which was led by the wise and experienced Phoenix Flight. The Mr was willing and eager, (although I suspect he was only half-joking when he let out a sigh of relief and declared “this is why I really came along” after fastening a gag firmly in place around my head)
Far below her, the Earth hangs bright and sparkling, a jewel of blue and white and green and brown nestling against the black velvet of space.
Tanya comes here as often as her full schedule permits, likes the serenity and spectacle of her home seen from orbit. As close to silent as possible in this humming, buzzing, creaking, clanking tin can, sometimes she visits for the tranquility. Not today though.
Now here’s a topic I have ambiguous feelings about.
Some aspects are totally hot – voicing my submission, vocalising the power and control that I have gifted to someone else, uhuh, oh yeah.
Begging for permission to orgasm, and getting only a cruel smile and a firm no in response.
Pleading for mercy as the slap of leather, or wood or plastic meets my tender reddened skin.
Making wide beseeching eyes of entreaty to a stern unyielding Dom/me as I am tormented and used to their satisfaction.
All of these things excite me.
But there are things I will not beg for because they come with too much baggage – sackfuls of shame, duffels of doubt, tote-bags of trepidation.
I will not beg for attention. I hate being made to feel as though interacting with me is effort or chore.
I will not beg for sex. Too many years in a relationship where my partner could not be honest about his absence of physical desire for me wrecked my self-confidence. I hinted, I flirted, I enticed, I begged – and finally I left. I can’t cope with the feeling that I’m asking for something I should have, don’t deserve or that I’m simply unworthy of. I might – in the heat of the moment – beg for teasing to turn into fucking, but rarely so and only if I know for certain that that is indeed what we both want.
I will not ever beg for freedom or love. Even though one is mine by right and the other is elusive; to be the supplicant for either feels like an outrage. Don’t I deserve both?
