He’s not fucking you, he’s using you to fuck himself. Look at his tightly-closed eyes, his thrown-back head. You can study him at your leisure; right now you’re so far over his horizon, he can’t even see you in his mind’s eye. Look at how his pursed mouth sharpens his cheekbones and squares his jaw. Isn’t he beautiful, isn’t he delicious? You’re almost tempted to clench your cunt muscles around him to see the expression you love so much; of astounded, almost-pained intensity but you don’t want to draw attention to your attention just now; there’s too much perverted pleasure in your non-participation. Don’t make a sound, don’t move a muscle fuckdoll, your task is to lie passive and silent while he masturbates furiously using your cunt as an accessory.
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….
CW: this story depicts not-quite-consensual sexual activity.
From the kitchen comes increasingly desperate clattering sounds as Anika searches for a very specific wooden spoon with all the urgency of a trapped miner who knows there’s one more stick of dynamite somewhere under the rubble.
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”
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.