fantasy – Knkstriped

Depravation

August 28, 2018

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.

The hood! Our newest acquisition, an intimidating contraption of firm black leather and cold silvery buckles; it watches me from the table with a sightless gaze, promising darkness, silence, anticipation. I know what it’s for. I just don’t know what it’ll be like.

Once naked, I pick up the earphones. They’re an expensive set of Bluetooth buds, powered up and ready but silent. Once they are fitted inside my ears, the world goes silent. I can hear my own breathing, detect the slight quickening of my heartbeat. Will it be music? White noise? I hope not.

I pick up the hood. It’s heavy and stiff, as new leather should be. I pull it on, glad that we chose one with both nose and mouth holes. An almost-claustrophibic sense of enclosure starts to creep up my spine; but I can run my tongue out and feel the air outside the hood, reach up and touch the contours of the leather with my hands. I haven’t ceased to exist; I’m not trapped in limbo. It’s just a hood.

I go to work on the buckles.

With no sight, no hearing, held static in my kneeling position by the command of my Master, time ceases to pass. How long have I been wearing the hood? It could be three minutes or thirty or any length in between. Probably not thirty though, because knowing myself as I do; there’s no way I’d manage to stay awake sitting still that long.

Is He here? Has He been standing, watching me with a sardonic smile, enjoying my stillness and my silence, relishing the power of the unseen observer? Or am I alone, tilting my head in question at the empty air? I have no way of knowing but I like to think He’s close, reaching out almost to touch me, His eyes intent. My cunt twitches at the thought.

Warm breath on my neck. I jump, heart pounding, breath catching in surprise and excitement. He’s here! Right behind me!

A hand grips my throat. Too late, I recall the admonition not to move, the threat that accompanied it. The hand moves up to grip my jaw, turning my head from side to side. That’s all the warning I get before-

CRACK!

-the sound of His palm hitting the inside of my leg is almost as much of a shock as the pain painting a fiery handprint on my skin. I gasp but stay as motionless as I can. Perhaps the tiniest flinch escapes, but either He fails to notice it, or (more likely) He chooses to overlook it. If I could see His face, I’d know which; that telltale smirk might be tugging at the corner of His lips. Or it might not. I have no way to know, in here.

He trails His fingers lightly over the skin of my shoulders, down my shoulder blades.

And stops.

I catch myself just in time; I must not move. I cannot see or hear, movement is instinctive but futile. I am patient, I tell myself. I am a good girl.

Soft brush against my left nipple. Not the warm yielding pad of a fingertip; this is a lighter and tickling touch. Feathers, perhaps I guess or soft tassels. I picture His hand close to my breast poised with the feather, yes definitely a feather and feel the tightening of my nipples as they harden into questing nubs, reaching out eagerly for His whisper-soft touch.

Sudden diamond-chill licks my clit and vanishes. This time, I‘ve stiffened and jerked away before I can remind myself of my instructions. This is deliciously, deviously unfair – and also exactly what we both like. He will tease and titillate me in exactly the ways I cannot help but respond to; then punish me for reacting. The more He provokes me, the more intense my responses, the more pain I can expect.

I hang in a void for endless seconds. Is there a cane poised above my leg or my breast, waiting to sear sharp lines across my skin? A finger and thumb inching their pliers towards the tender back of my upper arm? Shit, where did that ice cube go?

Still nothing

Has He left?

A second before His hard cock nudges my lips, I smell His musk and sense His heat in front of me. I open my mouth as wide as the hood allows – I love sucking His cock – and hold my stomach rigid against the gag reflex when the head presses against the back of my throat.

He fucks my mouth hard, fast, roughly; this is evidently my punishment for reacting to the ice on my clit. I moan my excitement, my dark and perverted libido climbing the ladder upward from the black depths of my heart, spilling drool from my mouth and juices from my cunt in equal measure.

He thrusts deeper, pressing the hood into His stomach and His cock down my throat. The air holes are blocked. I can’t breathe. I’m choking.

I tap out. Our ‘Amber’ safecue, two firm pats of my hand. Released, I sprawl back onto my heels, choking and heaving, shuddering. He grasps my hand and I squeeze twice, telling Him I’m fine, I’m happy, I just needed to pause for a moment.

More. I want more

I give him the thumbs-up and He hauls me up onto my knees again.

Oh god, yes. Please.

Something cool and slippery sweeps across the back of my neck. I stiffen and do not move. Satin? Silk? Before I have time to decide, He cups my breasts, leans in to kiss my shoulders. His touch is tender, reverent and warming. In that moment, there is a connection between us that seems almost tangible, a line drawn in electricity arcing between our bodies, linking our minds, fuelling our lust.

With splayed fingers, Master pushes my knees apart so that my cunt is exposed.

-and disappears

I know he’s still there.

There is no void this time, there is only my body, my breath, the hard floor beneath me. My cunt is dripping, sending hot trails along the inside of my thighs.

I’m half-aching for His touch, half-shrinking from the notion that my sadist Master is probably right now preparing His next move. An escalation, naturally. I acknowledge to myself with an invisible grin just how eagerly I’m contemplating that prospect. As the rumbling wand is jammed against my clit, I steel myself to hold still as long as I possibly can. It’s going to be a battle I’ll lose again eventually – and that’s ok with me. I hope He’ll let me come at least once before I do.

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.

Greedy

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.

Fantasturbation

June 25, 2018

TW: some of these fantasies involve totally make-believe scenarios of non-consensual sex. Consent is definitely and always necessary IRL, but inside my head I am safe to explore darker themes without damage. If the idea makes you uncomfortable or distressed then this blog post is not for you, please don’t read on. Always take care of yourselves and each other.

What do you think about when you’re having a wank? Someone asked me this a long time ago and my response was erm; fucking, duh….isn’t that what everyone thinks about?

Since then, I’ve read a lot of sex blogs and books, talked to various different people – friends, online acquaintances, total strangers – and have come to realise that it isn’t anywhere near as much of a well, duh matter as Younger Me assumed. (Younger Me may well have been even more of a smartarse twerp than Present Me. I’m working on that, honest)

But what a revelation – wanking doesn’t have to involve picturing penetrative sex! Now there’s a ‘well, duh’ moment if ever there was one. My eyes have been opened and my mind broadened! In fact, now I really think about it, there’s only a narrow time window in my wanking during which I am actually imagining getting thoroughly pounded by ravaging cock (I pretty much always include that at some point though).

So what do I think about when having a wank?

If I’m doing the 5-minute power-assisted Utility Wank; probably not much except the feeling of whatever device I’m using on my clit. That’s for when I’m tired or ragingly horny but without time to spare. (Interestingly, the orgasms I have from those feel less intense and more functional than fulfilling).

When I’m wanking for fun, I want more than just a redlining rev count.

Starting off with the warmup…. usually prior to my actually getting my hands onto/into myself…

These fantasies have narrative, and detail, I switch from one to another as my arousal builds, seeking the flavour that matches my mood. Am I feeling playful? Intense? Darkly submissive? Let’s test which of these makes me horniest today…

I’m lying on top of my duvet on a sunny weekend morning, pyjama bottoms kicked to my ankles, top yanked up over my tits. One hand idly brushing my clit, the other sucking on my fingers. I look up and see the man at the window. He was supposed to be cleaning it but has stopped, transfixed and tumescent, at the sight of me pleasuring myself. I give him a cheeky wink and reach for a dildo. I’m going to give him a show he’ll never forget. He watches as I slowly slide my toy in and out of my wet cunt, raising it now and again to plunge it my mouth, holding eye contact all the while.

The hard-eyed, set-jawed look of intent hunger my boyfriend gives me when we sneak a moment together away from this party; the same expression he wears when he pins me beneath him and rips away my knickers. “I’m going to make you work so hard tonight” he growls softly into my ear. “I’m going to make you beg me to let you come”. He pulls me to him so that I can feel how hard he is then leads me back inside where he teases me with whispered threats and sly pinches until it’s time to leave.

All evening I’ve been coming onto this man. He’s just my type; articulate, authoritative and amusing. We spoke in hushed, anticipatory tones of bondage, of spanking, of dominance and depravity. He reaches up behind me and cups a firm hand around the base of my skull. “Come with me” he orders. He bends me over in the lift and spanks my bare arse, then pulls me up by the hair. In his room, he ties me down over the desk, spreads my legs wide and tells me in graphic, filthy detail what he is going to do to me and how much he will hurt me if I scream or struggle

Now I’m soaking wet, hunger sparks up from my core and tingles across my body. My face is flushed, my pupils dilated. My cunt is greedy, aching to be filled, my clit is swollen in readiness. Time to get hands-on.

From this point onwards, it’s all about sensation. Plot arcs dissolve, characters lose their features, detail becomes blurred. Now I just want input; fast, hard and filling

The sight of myself in front of the mirror, makeup smeared and gasping as I fuck myself

The mental image of three beefy guys in a warehouse, one is on all fours with his mouth and arse filled by the hard cocks of the other two. They slap his arse, pull his hair, make him gag, choke, buck his hips, struggle against their inexorable thrusting

The feeling of being filled; arse plugged, cunt clenching on the ribbed glass cock, mouth full of thrusting silicone shaft

Short, desperate breaths into the pillow; a race between orgasm and escape from suffocation

The taste of my hot cunt sucked from my own fingers

Picturing myself held down, tied, chained up; spread and helpless, beaten, choked, brutally pounded in every hole by dozens of faceless men and women

My own voice, or another’s, imagined or recalled – that’s it you fucking slut, come on you bitch, use that cunt hard, take it all, do what you’re told or I’ll really hurt you, oh you fucking bitch, that’s it, come for me now

The gathering fire of my orgasm as it builds and detonates, spills hot wetness from my cunt and helpless moans from my mouth.

The languorous afterglow of a satisfied mind and body.

That’s what I’m thinking about today

Teacher’s Pet

June 18, 2018

After reading Jadis Liddell’s inspiring post about cock-sucking skills, my mind started working in a kinky direction (no change there then) and I envisioned cock-sucking lessons with a stern Mistress. Obviously, at that point I had to kick off my knickers and grab a big flexible silicone dildo to properly explore the scenario in my mind. After two – one leisurely and one frenzied – orgasms, I’d honed the scene to my liking. This is the result.

I’m a terrible show-off and teacher’s pet. I just have to be top of the class, otherwise I feel….cheated. Sitting here with my fellow-students at these desks, I can feel that familiar driving need to excel, setting my jaw and squaring my shoulders. We are not here to learn History or Maths or Physics. We are here to hone our oral skills. And I’m not talking about a debating club.

We sit still and in silence, waiting for our teacher. The seven of us are no longer strangers; we have swapped names and stories over introductory cups of tea. No-one here knows how competitive I am, how much I need recognition and reward. I hope I don’t embarrass myself.

The door is briskly pushed open and she enters; all black PVC and killer heels. Long dark hair swinging at her back and crimson lips quirked in an anticipatory smile. She reaches the front desk. The smile disappears.

“You are here” she begins in clear, ringing tones “because you want to learn the skills of a successful courtesan. I am your teacher and you will address me as ‘Mistress’. I do not tolerate disobedience, disrespect or inattention. Any such behaviours will be punished. If you cannot comply with my rules, now is your chance to leave.” She points to the door. We sit, watchful and silent. Am I the only one who feels a pricking of desire in response to this show of authority? Can she see submissive awe in my – or others’ – gaze? If so; she gives no sign.

“Good. Let’s begin.” She points with the riding crop she’s carrying at Sasha, the girl to my immediate left. “You. Go to the cupboard and distribute the equipment”

Sasha rises and I try to suppress a pang of jealousy. Why didn’t Mistress pick me?

The equipment turns out to be an assortment of silicone dildos. One in particular catches my eye – it’s large, at least nine inches long, ribbed and very chunky. What better way to impress than to take on the largest, most challenging option? But I’m not entirely confident I can manage it. Fear of failure wars briefly with arrogance until I receive my dildo. Not the biggest one. I’m half-disappointed, half-relieved. Part of me secretly hopes whichever girl who gets that large mock-cock, splutters and gags on it, surrenders and asks for a more manageable option. I wouldn’t. I’d rather choke than concede the red rosette.

It goes to Becks. She looks appalled for a moment, and quickly stifles a nervous titter. Our Mistress smiles kindly at her. “Don’t worry” she says “we’ll take it slowly”.

My allocation is a respectable seven inches or so, modelled to look and feel as realistic as possible, right down to the slightly comical fake balls at the bottom of the shaft. I can work with this.

Mistress talks us through the anatomy of the penis, points out particularly sensitive zones, and watches as we all practice handling and stroking our dildos. She seems satisfied, but has taken no particular notice of me so far.

We move on to tongue work. Now is my chance, I’ve been told many times that I’m good at this. I lap the dildo from base to head, using long, firm, slow strokes then flickering gently over the glans. I close my eyes and play it for real, imagining the grunts of satisfaction, the groans of abandonment from my disembodied lover. Curling my tongue sideways around the head and rubbing slow circles against the stiff synthetic frenulum, I am lost in the moment. I want to feel its hardness fill my mouth and so I purse my lips over the tip then plunge my head down as far as I can, taking it deep into the back of my throat then drawing back slowly, teasing with my tongue as I go.

I realise there is silence. Open my eyes. Everyone is staring at me.

Mistress has one elegant eyebrow raised. “What do we have here?” she drawls, swaying over to my desk “A show-off? Or a desperate little slut?”

My cheeks flame. I am both, of course but I don’t know which answer is the right one. She holds up her hand halfway through my stuttering apology.

“You’re a little ahead of yourself there” she says, and I try not to smirk at the pun.

I can’t work out whether I’m in for trouble or a treat. I can feel the eyes of the other girls on me; are they hoping to see me punished? I would be, in their position. Perhaps they are nicer people than I.

“Stand up” orders Mistress. “Go to the front of the room.”

I obey, wondering whether my knees are visibly trembling – or my hardened nipples can be seen under my jersey top.

“Get on your knees” she says, and although I still don’t know whether this is praise or punishment, I follow instructions promptly.

“Gather round” says Mistress to the others, and comes to the front desk to stand over me.

“Since I evidently have such an advanced class here, let’s move on to the next part of the lesson” she announces and I wince at the sarcasm in her voice. No gold stars here then.

She takes something from the desk drawer and buckles it around her hips. It’s a harness. With an enormous strap-on dildo attached. Bigger and twice as intimidating as the one Becks has been wrapping her lips around for the last fifteen minutes.

Oh god

Mistress smiles down at me cruelly. “Let’s see your skills in action again, shall we?” She nudges my lips with the tip of the monster. “Take it from the top”

I lick and suck at the sides of the shaft, top to bottom, over the tip, around the base. Looking up, I catch her eyes, darkened and intent on my bobbing head. “Don’t stop” she husks. “Open your mouth”.

She thrusts the huge dildo into my mouth and slides her hands into my hair, holding on firmly to stop me pulling away. I’m being fucked by this glorious, dominant woman as aggressively as any man has ever taken me – no, more so.

There is quiet in the room, only our hard breathing and the wet sounds of my mouth being used. From the corner of my eye, I see the others leaning forward, fascinated. Are they shocked? Aroused? Enjoying their witness of the lesson I am being taught?

My jaw begins to ache, but something stubborn and proud in me won’t ask for mercy. Mistress can see this in the furrowing of my brow and the tilting of my neck as I try to find a comfortable position to continue.

“As deep as you can now” she says, and I swallow, feeling the now-warm silicone slip to the back of my throat. Still I push my head forward, clenching my stomach against the gag reflex, until my face is pressed against the straps of the harness and her PVC dress.

“That’s enough” she says, withdrawing. “On your feet”.

She doesn’t sound impressed, only firm. I scramble gracelessly to a standing position and wait, wet-lipped and breathing heavily.

“You do that very well”. Her tone is soft but her eyes are piercing. “However, I don’t like showing off, and you my dear, are a little too smug about your prowess. So here is your punishment.”

“Go over to the wall and stand facing it with your hands behind your head until I release you”. I’m stung by her criticism, all the more so because I know it is deserved. The only thing that keeps me from dissolving into flaming resentment is the warmth of submissive desire that lingers alongside my overworked jaw muscles and sore knees.

I stand there, silent and still as she shows the rest of the class deep-throating techniques. There is much spluttering and the occasional retch. I smirk quietly to myself, no longer resenting the words of praise she doles out so sparingly to the others.

The class is dismissed. I am left alone with her, still in my punishment pose. My arms are numb.

She moves close behind me, reaches up to my shoulders and turns me around. Indicates with a tilt of the head that I can put my arms down. Draws the riding crop gently across my cheek.

“So, my dear. You like to show off do you?”.

Humbled, I nod.

“And I sense you like to be reined in as well”. There is amusement in her tone. I nod again.

“Well now. Perhaps someone should take you firmly in hand. Teach you a little humility. Would you like that?”

“Yes Mistress”, I whisper “I would like that very much”

She runs her hands lightly over me, assessing, inspecting.

“H’mm. I think I would like that too.” She hands me a slip of paper. “Here is my number. Here are my terms. If you are interested in discussing a more…..intimate learning programme, then call me tomorrow.”

My eyes are shining, my body quivering. Private tuition! Teacher’s pet! She pinches my lower lip softly. “Until tomorrow then”.

She leaves in that confident sashaying walk. I gaze after her, incredulous and elated.

The paper says her name is Mistress Ella. I am going to call her. I want – so much – to be her best pupil ever.

Men In Suits

June 14, 2018

I love a man in a suit. Well, I love the idea of a man in a suit anyway – sadly many actual men who habitually wear suits are dickheads.

So, hello unknown Men In Suits. Do you know what the sight of you does to me? Can you tell what’s going on in my head when I catch sight of you?

A well-fitted suit speaks to me of power, authority and responsibility. I want to submit to that power, feel that authority. I yearn to break through that professional detachment and make you forget your responsibilities until you can see only me, feel only me, want only what I can offer you.

I want you not to let me burrow under those neatly-tailored barricades of fabric. Keep your cool, reach with your hands but turn your head. Keep your suit on.

In my mind, I am standing naked before you in your office. The door is closed and from outside comes the low hum and clatter of people and technology. In here is silence.

You tug off that smart tie and use it to cover my eyes, knotting it firmly at the back of my head. You’re not interested in eye contact right now.

You don’t know my name and I don’t know yours – to me, you are the Man In The Suit; for you, I am just another executive accessory to distract you from the never ending flow of decisions and demands on your attention.

Pull me close so I can feel the fabric of your clothes rubbing against my skin as I twine myself around you. The contrast between your formal attire and my nakedness makes me feel wanton, you are Someone and I am someone’s fucktoy; here to fulfil just one purpose – to be used for your pleasure.

Push me to my knees, undo your flies, and stroke my hair with one hand as I suck you to hardness. The other hand still holds your phone in case you need to take an urgent call – you’d answer and talk business, still thrusting lazily into my willing, open mouth until the conversation ended. Then you’d look down at me with mild surprise, as though I’d ceased to exist while your mind was elsewhere, even as my tongue flickers over your shaft and your glans pushes rhythmically at the back of my throat.

Uncover my eyes. Pull me up, bend me over your desk, bind my wrists and fuck me from behind, taking me with firm fast strokes; you are busy and have important work to be done. This is just a routine break for you, no more significant than a refreshing cup of coffee snatched between meetings or a quick cigarette before you check your emails. Maybe you have one eye on your laptop as you thrust into me, maybe you’re looking out of the window and planning the next move in a corporate strategy while your hands roam across my soft yielding curves. Perhaps you don’t even notice that your breathing is becoming faster and heavier, that your body is moving more urgently against mine.

You grunt once, softly, as your hips buck and your come is spilled inside me. It’s a sound of contented satisfaction that you might make at a particularly good golf swing or an unexpectedly swift-arriving taxi. Your hands don’t linger on my bottom when you pull yourself free, your gaze doesn’t skim over the slick wet slit you’ve been using or my sweat-glistened back. You merely turn away, tucking yourself back in and rearranging your disarrayed trousers, retrieving your tie and replacing it neatly around your neck. Your mind is already on the next deal, the next challenge, just another task in another busy day.

When you leave the room without a backward glance, it is my turn. I fuck myself violently with the fingers of both hands, pinch my swollen nipples, smear your come across my lips and lick it off in ecstasy. Here is the pleasure you did not think to give me, these are the sensations of the anonymous women who has been taken, used and left; simultaneously deeply fulfilled yet still desperately aroused. When I reach orgasm only minutes after your departure, I notice your silk handkerchief lying beside me on the desk and draw it across my dripping, twitching cunt until it is soaked with our mingled juices.

I dress, repair my hair and makeup until I am once again the busy professional. As I leave the room, the only clues to our encounter only the slight flush on my face and the darkened handkerchief lying on the desk.

Cooling Off

June 11, 2018

The warm weather today got me thinking about how nice a cool shower would be….and then my mind turned to kinkier ideas….with the result that I spent quite a while imagining this scenario then decorating myself with pegs and clamps before giving myself an intense pain-enhanced orgasm.

—

Today was hot. After a day in London, you’re sticky and grimy; sweat was rolling down your back on the Victoria line and edging into the crack of your arse with a maddening tickling touch. Your hair is damp at the nape of your neck, your face is shiny with the effort of walking home from the bus stop. All you want is a cool shower and a long drink. Preferably something involving large amounts of gin.

Your phone vibrates. Instructions received.

For a moment, you feel rebellious – but the flare of resentment is pushed aside by the wakening thrill of anticipation. What will be this evening’s task?

Take off your clothes when you get in. Close your eyes and wait for me at the front door.

Inside the house, you cast aside your handbag and gratefully peel off your workwear. The house is cool and the sweat of exertion dries quickly, lowering your temperature and raising goosepimples with the contrast. You close your eyes, standing still and careful not to slouch. The posture training was arduous but effective. You can almost feel the bite of the cane across your buttocks and thighs every time you catch yourself slumping.

Footsteps. Breathing. A hand strokes your hair, follows the line of your jaw and your throat.

“Hello, my little slut”

The hand brushes your breast until His fingers find your nipple. Pinches, hard enough to make you gasp.

You can’t see Him, but you know He’ll be smiling.

“Tell me who you are”.

You respond as He trained you, eager and adoring. “I’m your slut, Sir”

“Good girl. Now come with me, and don’t say a word.”

He takes your wrists, ties them together and uses the rope to lead you slowly up the stairs and into the bathroom. Once inside, He pushes you to your knees and ties the end of the rope to the towel rail so that your arms are raised over your head.

Your stomach is fluttering, halfway between fear and desire. You know He’s going to hurt you. You want Him to hurt you. You want it so much, your cunt is already slick and your cheeks flushed.

“No peeking now” He chuckles as he slips a satin mask over your eyes.

The deep, dull pinch of the first clothes peg on the sensitive skin of your breast makes you bite your lip. He adds more, one by one, until they bristle from both your breasts. You’ve lost count, is it twelve? fourteen? With each pinch, you’re calculating how much more it will hurt coming off again. A lot.

“Just one more” He reassures you.

Then attaches it to your lower lip. Steps back to admire his handiwork. “Very nice. Good girl. Oh wait – I almost forgot…..” He spreads your thighs wide and reaches between them to stroke your swollen clit before sliding the clip into place. “Perfect. What a beautiful little slut you are”

You hear the click of His camera phone. Suddenly your arms are free and the blood rushes back into them. You know better than to rub them or move without permission. He grabs a handful of your hair.

“Get up”

Still holding you by the hair, He pushes you into the shower and turns the water on. Cold water. You can’t help it, you scream and struggle. With His other hand, He smacks your buttocks hard – five, six times until you get yourself under control and stand still, gritting your teeth against the cold and the hundreds of tiny droplet impacts on the pegs. He shoves you forward and places your hands against the wall beneath the shower head.

“Don’t move”

He spreads your buttocks and plunges His sturdy cock into your wet, willing cunt. As you gasp and splutter under the deluge of cold water, He fucks you without mercy; slamming into you so hard the pegs on your breasts shake and rattle. Head held back by the hair as He uses you, hands against the wall, cold water raining down on you, tapping your clamped clit, the pain is so achingly fucking sweet, so gorgeously kinky, so deliciously overpowering.

His breathing changes – faster and shallower; you know He’s approaching His orgasm. You know what He’s going to do and your cunt clenches in anticipation. As He tips over the edge, He sinks His teeth into your shoulder and reaches around to sweep the pegs from your breasts, your lip, and the clamp from your clit. The pain is breathtaking; fire and scorpion venom flooding your nerves and searing your brain. Pegs clatter to the floor as you scream and buck hard against His spasming cock. You can’t breathe through the cascading water, you can’t move from His tightly-pinioning arms, you can’t see or think or speak; you’re riding the endorphin high deep into subspace.

He turns off the water, pulls off the mask and wraps you gently in a big fluffly towel. Pats you dry and holds you close until you start to drift downwards back to Him. He kisses you lovingly.

“Well done” He whispers. “Good girl”. All the words you want and need to hear from Him. You can’t feel the pain any more, only warmth and love and pride. You are His.

Tag: fantasy