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.
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

We Swim in Different Oceans, but Land on the Same Shore

The fingers of one hand probe deep in my mouth, stroking the soft, slick skin of my cheeks, teasing at my tongue. Your lips press against the tattoos on my shoulders, beneath my nape, tongue tracing the outlines of sacred shapes, drinking in the secrets of my ink. Your second hand squeezes, gropes, massages my breasts. You take my warm mounds in your big palms, tease at my nipples with your knuckles. You pluck and pull and pinch, and I moan around your fingers.

The weight of your body pushes me forward and I crawl up the bed, just out of your reach, just until you follow me onto the mattress. I wiggle my bum from side to side and dip my head down, hips held up high, thighs spread open, just so. I feel your teeth at my left shoulder and I arch my back sharply, spread my arms out in front of me. Your fingers press at cunt, sink in slowly, scissoring inside of me, opening me, stretching me over your hand. I inch back with my knees, pressing my hips down over those fingers, taking more of you inside.

“So eager?” you murmur.

I am.

I feel your body crowd over the top of mine, and when your fingers slide out, your cock slides in seamlessly. You press your hips, wriggle them from side to side, until you sink into me, all the way to the root. I can feel your pelvis against my bare ass.

Your still wet fingertips crawl over my rounded ass and up my spine, until they reach my nape. They wrap around the back of my neck and you pull me up against you. I turn my face so that you can catch my lips with yours. Your mouth is as ravenous as the rest of you. I lean back against you. I want your skin against mine. Both hands reach around to grab at my breasts, to squeeze and pull at them, to abuse them. I break our kiss and rest my head against your shoulder. Already I am gasping. Sweet torture. What bruises you lay on me, fresh and new atop the old. I ache deep in my chest. Your teeth assault my neck and my hips writhe, my squirming pulls you deeper into my body. I ache here, where you are, where you belong.

I am nothing if not yours.

Dear Diary,

Today I was productive.

I went to work for a half a day. I observed the first half of a criminal trial (no I’m not a juror, don’t worry). I wrote a paper. I ate three meals and met all my macro and nutrient goals, while coming under on fats, sugars, and cholesterol. The day is not over… I may even do some laundry (on a week day that is not my day off, this is unheard of).

I also came home and played with a new toy(s) that I have yet to tell Sir about. They are distracting and lovely and leave me aching and… a little bruised.

I may have just ratted on myself.

I’m excited.

You’ve Been Tearing me Apart in the Dead of Night

The thunder wakes me. Or maybe it is your heartbeat, soft and steady next to me. I need you now, in the night. I need you. Sinuously, I slide against you. Silently begging you to awake. To touch me. To feel my need through your pores. You stir. Your hand slides around my throat, round to my nape and down my spine. Your body turns toward me in the dark.

I hunger. A primal, deep hunger that can only be sated by you. I need your violence. I need your gentle touch. I wrap my body around yours, whispering, cooing, begging. I can feel you growing in between us, and I know you hunger like I do.

“Be inside of me, baby,” I moan. “Be inside of me,” I whimper your name, low in pitch and soft and sacred.

I am near tears already. There is ecstasy in small denial, in awaiting pleasure. My head swims with wanting you. Your hand against my thigh is trembling with one hundred unspoken words, with desires untold, with your own silent need. You grip my thigh and pull it around you. I am too happy to oblige, locking my ankle somewhere near the middle of your back, stretching my muscles taut, opening myself wide.

I stiffen, preparing for that one deep, hard plunge, to bury you inside of me, all the way to the root, to make our pelvises clash together, to feel the head of your shaft press against my cervix roughly. I prepare my body. But instead you employ the long con, the slow game, the exquisite torture. In just enough to tease, just enough to taste, just enough to make my muscles spasm, reaching and grasping after of their accord. But no further. No deeper. No harder. Slow, shallow, lazy pumps of your hips. I can feel my body’s slickness coating you, coating me, staining the soft sheets. My body cries around your cock, gushing sweet, sticky girl juices.

Every thrust a gasp. Every gasp a cry of protest. Every protest full of tears, full of soft, imploring words. I know my eyes are desperate. You are trying for my vacant gaze, for my slack-jawed stare, for my disbelief that I could ever feel this good, for the realization that only you can make me feel this good.

You capture my mouth with yours. Such stark contrast to your gentle strokes. Your mouth is hard, unyielding, ravishing my own. You force me open, tongue traversing the path of my lips into the recesses of my mouth. Savage, you are savage and hunting for an answer in the breath that you are stealing from me. Here, I feel it, all your need, the way you want me in return. The passion, the heat, the fire. It is too much. I cannot take the flame.

I melt against you, giving in to your will, to your need, giving my desire into your hands. I will lose myself in you. My tears are free-flowing, our lower bodies a mess from my arousal. You begin to work me deeper, to punctuate each thrust like the end of an exclamation point. I am half broken already.

The way you touch me is perfection.