And Miles to Go Before I Sleep

Some days… nights… moments… the only thing on my mind is being exactly what you need. I play with my breasts in front of you. I am sleepy and aroused. It is late, and I wear only a long, silky-soft robe. I can hear the sleep in your voice. I can see it in your eyes. Your hand is wrapped around your beautiful, meaty cock, and I am hypnotized by the movement of your fingers.

I have a moment of desire for a long, sweaty night, wherein we both fall exhausted into bed at the light of dawn. But it is already late. We are both tired. There is work in the morning. I want to do whatever I can for you. I want to please you. I want to get you off so we can roll over and fall into the warm comfort of sleep. I want nothing but your satisfaction.

“I want to please you.”

“You are my pleasure.” Continue reading

The Feeling you Bring, So Deep in Now, I Could Kiss you for Hours

I have said before that some days I wake up, and without warning, and for no reason, I feel feisty. And more than feisty, I feel violent. Sir would call it Bratty, but I think it crosses the boundaries of bratty (and… I am NOT a brat). When I am in this mood, he often seems to receive the brunt of my violent desires. I want to pounce on him, bite him, fight him. In an effort to get what I want, I mock him. I make fun of him. I gently chide and chastise him.

…Maybe not so gently.

I am a visual person. I imagine this is what we look like, although I’m kidding myself if I think I’d be able to put him down bodily (don’t tell him that):

giphy Continue reading

Drown Me, You Make My Heart Beat Like the Rain

He calls me Pooh in the sweetest, most endearing tone of voice. I can’t explain the complex web of emotions it brings about in me. When coupled with his beckoning me to his mouth for sweet kisses, I can barely breathe. He cups and sucks and lathes my breasts, showering them with attention. His eyes meet mine while he does and I can do little more than pant and squirm against him. He groans against my nipple and nuzzles the pale flash.

“I could spend a whole day here, just sucking and kissing and nibbling your beautiful tits,” he mumbles into my skin.  Continue reading

Jail Break Baby

The first way he touched me, was not with his bare hands, but with the cane, at my request. What is it about chastity and denial that awakens the masochist in me?

Hurt me, please, I cooed at him.

Thank you, I yelped.

I moaned as he sliced through the air and cut across my bum. I could feel the marks burning beneath my panties. I whimpered as he beat against the back of my thighs. I love the cane on my thighs.

“You want more, baby?”

He kissed me on the mouth sweetly.

I want more than I know he will give my pain craving body, but I beg just the same.

“On your back.”

I laid on my back and writhed beneath his ministrations. He beat the tops of my thighs, my favorite place, until my breathing was coming in tiny gasps and sighs.

“Spread your legs,” he commanded.

I complied, and he slapped me cruelly just, just, just at the innermost place on my thigh, right where the very edge of my panties met my thigh, and then the opposite side.

I yelped like a kitten and squirmed against the bed. I could feel the welts forming on my skin, bright and angry, hot and raised, blood rising to kiss the inside of pale, pale skin.

He tortured my tits in the same manner, requesting that I pull on my aching nipples, and tug my breasts out, giving him more room to beat and bruise, more delicate skin to cut.

He was cruel. And then he was kind.

He kissed me once more. He lathed at my breasts, suckling and licking and nibbling at the puckered tips as his hands groped and worked the meat of them. He climbed between my legs and inhaled deeply. He whispered against the apex of my thighs, groaning at the sight and smell of me. He showered my pussy with compliments as he licked me, as he drank me, as he ate me. He was hungry for me, and the noise of him, eager, aroused, made me shudder, made me cry. How beautiful to be touched by him so intimately after such denial. How perfect.

“I love this view, baby,” he growled.

I covered my face with my hands as he pushed my thighs apart and forced his pelvis to meet mine in one deep stroke. I convulsed. My body writhed. My hips pumped up to meet his with each stroke. I can never explain the life changing moment that is having him inside of me after a game of denial. How good it feels. How amazing he is.

I blush more. I cry softly. I moan loudly. My breath comes in a sharp pant. My chest rises and falls. Too soon I feel my body clench, tighten, spasm. There is a point of heat, sharp and alarming that is cresting.

I call out my desire. My need. He allows.

My pleasure becomes his.We meld and melt.

Satiated. A mess. We are a mess.

My body is bruised and used. How amazing to be desired. How beautiful to know such pleasure.

I’m Your Prisoner of Love, Baby, and You’re in Control

My tank top is grey. My tank top is nearly see through. If you were here, you’d know it well. It’s tight up top. If you were here, you’d catch a view of pale sideboob, peppered with little freckles. My nipples are pert and hard beneath the thin fabric. It is cold in my room. I pick at the waist band of my navy blue panties. I trace a circle around my navel with two fingers.

I fidget.

I struggle.

It’s been four days. That’s not enough time to be this pent-up.

It’s not.

I’ve said it before. I’ll say it again. Continue reading

How to Scare Friends and Alienate People: Or, Why I am in the Dungeon

If you’re not following Mrs Fever’s blog, you should be.
fever
That picture is a link. Click it. Follow. She is sexy. She is philosophical. She is a little educational(!). She is very real.

And she has graciously hosted a guest blogger series on several different topics over the last couple of years, a few of which I have taken part in. She is currently hosting a series on “Coming Out”–on being your authentic self.

There are already posts up from this week that are well worth reading and commenting on. And today, my post is up. You can read this HERE.

The Business of Denial

I’ve been getting a lot of attention from Sir lately. We occasionally get in grooves and dig our heels in, unwilling to allow the constraints of work, time, space, and miscellaneous bullshit to get in the way. This is not always possible, no matter how deep we dig in those heels, but it has been lately.

As of yesterday evening, that ends, for the most part, for the next 7 days. I have a responsibility that I cannot beg off from.

Knowing this, and having recently procured some new toys, I naturally thought the best thing to do would be to tease Sir relentlessly about how I’d have no time to give him, but how I’d be furiously masturbating until I did. I may have said some other things that were decidedly bratty about maintenance spankings and mouthy S-types… it’s all quite the blur now.

So here I am. Denied.

As of yesterday evening, after a last little tete a tete, I am denied. I am closed for business. No touching. And Sir is clever. He specified. No touching, no groping, no stroking, no toys, no humping a bloody pillow. NO. TOUCHING. He teased me today about counting a standing tattoo appointment as touching–but he merely teased. Even though the repeated sticking of my skin with a needle and the blossoming of the blood ramped me rather far up.

It is to my own detriment anyway, as I have no means of release. It’s midnight here, real time, for once, and I’m contemplating using my sweet, stuffed plushie as a masturbatory aid, cos’ he didn’t say the giraffe couldn’t touch me, now did he?

The Giraffe Made Me Do It

The Giraffe Made Me Do It

 

How could you be mad at that face?

Don’t worry, readers, I’m not going to cheat with my Giraffe. He’s too soft to muss with body fluids. I might just need to go to bed before I get myself into any deeper trouble.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**No Giraffes were harmed in the making of this post