Knkstriped

Sex dream

…you love this don’t you, slut? Your cunt was dripping as soon as you saw her, watching her doing you makes me want to fuck your mouth until you choke, you bitch. I might just hold you down and let her hurt you…

My libido woke from its temporary hibernation and delivered this dream, alongside my writing mojo. Welcome back to both. Please feel free next time not to drag That Guy up out of my subconscious along with you.

CW: hatefuck


like all good parties, most of the action has coalesced in the kitchen. Guests lean against the counters, drinks in one hand, the other draped casually around nearby waists or scrabbling at tortilla chips. Robust opinions mingling in good-natured rowdiness against the backbeat of the nostalgic 90s Britpop blaring from the corner speakers.

I’m standing alone by the back door, trying not to sneak too many glances at him in case he notices. It’s been a long time since we split up, under not-entirely-amicable terms (for which I must accept my share of responsibility – which is most of it). He’s changed little, his long blond hair showing evidence of recent highlighting; handsome, boyish – almost delicate – Nordic cheekbones and wide blue eyes, tip-tilted nose a startling contrast to the sandy goatee and black leather clothing. My stomach flutters when I look at him. Admiration, for he is as pretty as I remembered. Apprehension, in case he is still angry or worse – disdainful. Hope. A tiny, flickering butterfly of hope. For what, I’m not exactly sure. Something.

The Waiting Game

There’s an instant when the expression in his eyes turns from adoringly playful to speculative intent. That look, as he sideslips from boyfriend to Dominant; hunger turning to command, sparks heat and a flood of wetness in response. My legs part of their own accord, my breath hitches in my chest, my mouth parts in anticipation. Signalling to him my willingness – my eagerness – to be owned and used and taken by him.

He cuffs my ankles, fastening them to either end of the spreader bar so that they are held wide apart. I’m forbidden to come until he gives permission, he tells me, his voice low and calm. Naturally, at this ominous news, I moan and squirm in excitement. It’s going to take a long time, he warns with a smirk. Unnff.

All the feels

I know lots of stuff. On some specific (niche and uninteresting-to-most) topics, I know loads. I’ve learned a lot about myself too over the last few years; my character, my sexuality, my triggers and vulnerabilities, blind spots and biases. Sometimes this all gets in the way, meaning that I fall back on the knowledge I have already collated. rather than learning and adapting. There’s a small window of learning opportunity between fear and arrogance; sometimes I sidle through that window, other times I get stuck and flail about until I panic or get angry and fearful and sad. When that happens, Things I Know get filtered through Things I Feel and a vicious circle can develop.

#Pervember 15: Impact Play

I’ve only once in my life had a flogging. There was I, face-down on the hotel bed, ankles tied wide apart, hands bound above my head, drifting happily into subspace as the soft leather falls bounced off my buttocks in a steady, measured onslaught.

It didn’t hurt enough. I wanted him to use his belt instead. Of course, begging for the belt only resulted in admonitions of “patience, little one” – and no belt.

#Pervember 14: Praise Kink

Oh yes. Oh definitely. I didn’t know this had an actual name until I started this Pervember exercise, but this is certainly a significant one for me.

I’m a good girl, aren’t I? See how hard I work, to bring you joy and make you smile. To cause your groans of pleasure. To taste abandonment and indulgence. I’m on my knees for you; mouth open, eyes wide, beseeching you to use me for your satisfaction. I’m stretched and bound for you, open and willing, offering myself for your delectation. I need your words of appreciation. I crave your lustful gaze. I long for your admiration.

#Pervember 12: Hair Pulling

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.

#Pervember 8: Orgasm Denial

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.