In the house of my psyche, she resides below ground level. Down in the deepest cellar, in her soft-furnished boudoir she sprawls across a four-poster bed, naked and tousle-haired and ready for mischief. Across her skin are scrawled the scars of a hundred lessons imperfectly-learned; crossed-out names and instructions ignored. She’ll flaunt them with insouciance, they are a challenge and a come-on. “Can’t catch me” they mock silently; and “is that all you’ve got?”.
Power is the gift that puts pleasure in pain
What makes an item of furniture worthy of the classification? Where is the threshold at which utility is so far…
Practicing my blowjob skills like a good girl and taking pictures for pervy thrills, seems to have brought back my writing mojo as well
“Put your collar on, I’m going to fuck you” Crude, stark words that make my lips tingle, a bloom of…
This. I want this. Oh god, how much I yearn. I want the cold, unyielding stretch of the plug pushing…
Off the meds and casting about for an anchor against the storm of demons gnawing on my soul
Help yourself. There she is, strapped down, wide open, held firmly in place; ready for your enjoyment.
I do, very much, want to be his good girl. I want to own it and flaunt it, and bask in it. Obedience. It makes me wet.
You slide lube-slick fingers between my legs and I gulp down another inch of your straining, questing cock. Saturday afternoon sex, slow and sensual, is about to turn deliciously kinky.