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.
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.
“Come here”
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.
Ahhhh, my favourite thing. There aren’t enough words in any language to express how much I love…want….need bondage in my life.
No-one has ever offered me a collar – I’ve just never been in a relationship where that was either desirable or appropriate. Although I fantasise about having that intensity of D/s relationship, in many ways I’m still too jaded and distrustful to contemplate that degree of commitment without fear.
Having been (briefly, disastrously and unhappily) married, I’m wary of any kind of ceremonial binding that indicates permanence. In that, I am a hard-headed rationalist first and a romantic last. Nothing is permanent. Everything changes. Promising lifelong devotion is just setting myself up for failure. I made those promises once before a roomful of happy people, and I broke them. Extenuating circumstances; but nonetheless, I did.
I know that collaring doesn’t mean permanence unless the participants choose it to do so (and even so, the relationship can be dissolved by either party at any time) – in that, it’s much more sensible (to my mind) than the model of marriage we have in this country at the moment. And that makes me wonder if my aversion is more sour grapes than principle, simply rejecting the idea because it’s not within my reach? It may come within my reach someday and if it does, perhaps my feelings will change. Perhaps, if ever offered a submissive’s collar by a Dom/me who I love and trust enough to accept the symbol from; I will admit that this is what I’ve wanted all along.
And perhaps not.
I do have a couple of leather collars that I wear because I enjoy the look and feel rather than any symbolism. I like having my throat encircled. I like to run a chain from one nipple clamp, through the ring on the collar, to the other clamp so that my breasts are lifted, and they tug at the collar as they swing to the rhythm of being vigorously fucked.
I worried at one point that it was somehow ‘not ok’ for me to appear in public wearing a collar for my own pleasure, that collars were somehow reserved only for subs who had been granted them by their Dominant. And then I thought ‘sod it, I’m not hurting anyone by wearing something which I like simply because I like it’ and stopped worrying about it. Feel free to disapprove of my choices but do please refrain from sharing it with me.
Collaring is not something to which I aspire.
Yet
This is part 6 of the tale of the Governor’s Wife – you can catch up with the story so far at the links below
She runs her fingers lightly across the welts and bruises blooming on her pale skin, luxuriating in their heightened sensitivity, their vibrant colours. She has never felt so alive and so much at peace; bound and beaten she was finally freed from the constraint of corsets and conventions which had thus far imprisoned her spirit.
Quinn Rhodes wrote a very sexy story this week involving girls and cake. It made me wet and urgently horny as hell. In gratitude for the inspiration, I dedicate this to her – she’s a great writer and a lovely person.
It was just a tiny nibble. A small corner of a small slice of choclate cake, the slightly-rounded edge my teeth had left barely visible except on close inspection.
But inspect it she did. She knows me too well.
I acquired quite a few gorgeous bruises last week at Kinkfest, but the most intriguing is this one. I don’t remember exactly how it occurred but it’s been there smiling at me whenever I’ve taken my clothes off in the intervening days so I’ve grown quite fond of it.
In extreme closeup, you can see patterns on my skin which are actually each tiny little stretch marks – my skin is very stretchy but doesn’t heal well. There’s a lot of contrasts here – damage resulting from my genetic condition vs damage I explicitly asked for and enjoyed receiving; pale threads of scarring vs the livid contusion; that it’s on my inner thigh but seen out of context, looks a bit like a nipple….I guess it’s a symbol of my sexuality as a person with a disability – although it imposes limitations on my energy and my physical capabilities, I’m still a kinky submissive painslut who absolutely loves a really hard fucking.
The note He left me gave clear instructions in His spiky drunken-spider handwriting
Take off your clothes.
Insert the earbuds
Put on the hood.
Present yourself and wait for me.
Keep absolutely still at all times. If you move, you will be punished.
X marked the spot
where she leaned
and clung, writhed
and screamed
a padded tree
of knowledge gained
with every lash
her soul explained
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. more “Patience”
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. more “Face slapping – a hard limit”
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” more “Opening Lily”
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. more “Confessions of an AI Dom/me”
Today I discovered the absolutely magnificent art of Yury Fadeev. Being a kinky nerd, I just adore the combination of eroticism and geekery in these images. This guy is a total genius.
AMAZING. I want to buy everything!