Struggle Snuggles

I collapse onto the bed. Everything moves like molasses. I feel so ancient when I am so tired. My body does not want to work any more. Sleep, it cries, Sleep, please. I crawl on elbows and knees to the head of the big bed, curl around and under and against the numerous pillows that I keep.

You follow me on your knees and slide my leggings off of my hips, down my legs, pull them gently from my toes. I mumble something. Resisting every second that I have to have my eyes open. You carefully unwind my arms from around the soft mounds of fabric and I whine, a high-pitched, mewling little whine. My eyes are closed because I cannot take the harsh light any longer.

“Turn off the lights,” I whimper.

“First, your dress.”

Your hands move under the soft, flowing fabric and you tug at it until I move and comply and participate. I roll over and around, squirming, and whining the whole time. It too comes off of my head, and flies to some unknown destination.

“The lights,” I whisper. 

Continue reading

From the Tip of Your Tongue, Mercy Awaits


His hands slide up my hips, beneath the silky fabric of my panties and he hooks his thumbs into the waistband before dragging them down, past my thighs, my knees, my calves, letting them tangle briefly in my toes before finally ripping them from me. I move fast to cover my nakedness, to tug my dress down to hide my body. I cross my ankles and he tuts at me. My panties are against his face, and he inhales deep, smelling me; my anticipation, my desire, my apprehension.

He throws the cloth down on to the bed and wraps his hands around my ankles. His index fingers stroke the bones there before he rips my legs open. I whine. I struggle. He slaps the insides of my thighs until they are stingy and red and hot. Until I stop struggling.

“Lift your dress back up.”

I blush. I giggle. I close my eyes.

“Lift your dress up, girl.”

The word strikes a chord in me. My fingers wrap into the fabric of my dress, circle and knot until my hands are covered in the fabric, and all at once, I yank the dress up, over my breasts, letting the fabric loose to rest on the crest of them. I peek at him, watch his eyes as he looks me over. I’m wearing the lace bandeau bra he enjoys, black and so see through. I know he can see my nipples perfectly, pebbling beneath the soft cloth.

He presses his hand over top of my mound, heel of his palm putting a pressure against my clit, long, sinuous fingers tip-tapping against my pelvic bone. He presses and motions for me to scoot back, to wiggle until  I am nearly at the headboard. He climbs in between my legs, on his knees, lets his hand slide to wrap around my thigh, the second one follows. His thumbs stroke that soft, sensitive place where my legs and pelvis meet and I shiver for the first time.

His fingers dig into me, and he pulls me up by my legs. I yipe in surprise as he lifts my hips up and leans down simultaneously. I squirm in his firm grasp. The way he holds me leaves me helpless and vulnerable. I am wide open to him.

He breathes against the core of me and inhales deeply.

“Daddy,” I whisper, in a trembling voice.

“Mmm?”

“Don’t…”

“Oh? Don’t?”

My entire body is covered in a blush. He can taste the lie in the scent and sight of me. I say nothing.

“Don’t you want me to eat you, baby? Don’t you want me to lick you? To suck you? To drink down your sweet, sweet girly juices? Don’t you want to come on my tongue, Pooh?”

I moan at the last, unable to help myself. My fingers rip into the sheets and hold there, anchoring me.

He dips his tongue between my folds, tasting the sticky sweetness he finds there. I bend to his will beautifully, twisting and writhing beneath him as he laps at me, as his tongue circles the powerful ring of muscle, the entrance to my body. His tongue slips inside of me and I can feel my cunt spasm around it. He groans into me, and it reverberates through me. His powerful arms pull my legs to his shoulders as they snake around my hips, palms resting flat on my abdomen. He creeps closer to the bed, burying his face against me, nuzzling in my slick juices, my warmth. My thighs squeeze, trying to pull him tighter to me, force him deeper.

I lose control like I never had any to begin with… and truthfully, I did not. I come undone beneath him. I can barely recognize myself in the sounds that leave my lips. I am desperate. I am needy. I need him like this. I can feel my body reacting, throbbing, pulsing, gushing. I am a trembling, crying mess. The sweet torture makes me sob softly and his fingers tighten around me.

His tongue cups and strokes my clit, and it aches beneath the tender ministrations. I want more from him, but he’ll have what he wants of me first.

“Please,”I begin to whimper. “Please… no… no…”

He growls from between my legs and I can feel him grow hungrier. His touch becomes savage as he digs into my hips with one hand, the other slips in beneath his lips and presses against me. Three fingers push inside of me and he strokes my inner walls before building a rhythm. My cries grow loud, uneven. I fight him now. I struggle. My legs shake. My toes stiffen and flex. My nails dig into the mattress.

I don’t know the words coming out of my mouth. I am talking in streams of consciousness. I am begging for him to stop or for him to never stop. I’m not sure which. My eyes are closed tight. I cannot take the arresting, erotic look of him between my thighs.

A flip in me switches and I can feel the heat coursing out from the center of me, warming my blood, making my skin flush. Something in my movement, or maybe something in my voice, my taste… something sets him off. He knows. He picks up the pace and I writhe beneath him as I fall over the edge. My tears flow freely as my body gushes around his lips. He replaces his fingers with his tongue, and, as promised, drinks me as I come. His groan sends me shivering again. I can see the universe behind my eyes–bright and dark, all at once. I am panting, and trying to ward off the little hiccups and tiny tears. My lips are trembling.

He slides my legs from around his shoulders and I feel his body crawl up against mine. I roll into his arms and regroup there. Trying to find myself behind the roiling of pleasure and of emotions. He kisses me on the mouth, and I taste myself there. I marvel at the intimacy I feel in this moment with him, as we breathe for each other, lips locked, the thick taste of my orgasm shared between us.

When our kiss breaks, he nuzzles his cheek to mine.

“Good girl,” he murmurs.

I can only have this with him.

I am Here, No Matter Where You Are

I haven’t felt like yours.

This is not some failing on your part or, as I try to convince myself, mine, but it is a matter of fact brought about by circumstance. Familial obligations and work stress for me, work and sickness for you. Time is ever our enemy. I have known this for a long time. The handful of times we’ve managed to connect over the last month, you’ve done your level best to make me feel… everything. Selfishly, I do not think I have done the same for you… and when I am in this mood, I wonder if these are things you even need from me. It has been rough on me because I have a gaping chasm of need within me that is hard to ever fill. It has been hard to me because I’ve been focusing on the inevitable and worrying about all the wasted time. I stress myself out needlessly.

For the first time in years. I haven’t felt like yours. Not an ounce. Not an inch. I’ve felt… removed. Dormant. Quiet. Alone.

I need to reiterate that there is nothing you could’ve done to change this. That there is nothing that you did to cause this.

I haven’t felt like yours.

And when we came together today… not Fatal and Sir but You and I, as I have come to know us, when we came together and you spoke those heated words, dripping with the knowledge of ownership, with the simple understanding that I am yours… when you spoke those words, it opened something inside of me. All at once there was a bleeding, gushing, hemorrhaging wound in my heart.

I am yours. Everything that I am.

I remembered, like the words of a song I used to know, it returned to me at once. And I was sobbing and could not stop. I could not speak to you, so overcome with need and emotion I was.

I am saboteur of my own happiness. I cannot have what I need and want when I stand in my own way.

I need to sleep. And there will  be a spanking. And I will sob. And it will hurt because it has been so long. And I will weep. And there will be catharsis. And I will beg you to be inside of my body. To mark me in a way that will leave echoes  of ownership on my skin. Because I need it. Because I need you.

I need to feel like I am yours.

Look but Don’t Touch

He breathes against my mouth. Our lips are a hair’s breadth away from one another, mine parted, aching, throbbing, with longing. Kiss me! I want to cry out, but this is not part of the game. He breathes against my mouth, and our eye contact is intense. I can feel the heat of his body, a long line of heat, so close to me, so near to me. I want to envelop myself in him. But this is not part of the game.

Take off your dress, he whispers into my mouth.  Continue reading

Torture Me (With All I’ve Wanted)

“Fuck me… hard and deep,” I murmur.

He answers me in his mother tongue and I shudder at the implication of the words, at the music he makes with his mouth, even when he’s talking dirty.

I spread my legs wide and he slides his cock deep inside of me once, all the way, until our hips nearly meet. All the way out, and all the way back in, again, again.

“Is that what you needed, baby?”
Continue reading

I Struggle With Body Issues, But…

then he says things like:

“My cock is hard because of how beautiful you are, baby. Every inch of you is beauty to me. Every inch of you is gorgeous. I love your body, Fatal. You are what brings me pleasure. You’re everything that makes me so fucking hard. I want you to know how much I need your body. I want you to love that knowledge.”

And I can feel it all chipping away slowly, like it was never there to begin with.

It’s not gone, not by half. But he worries at it like a dog at a bone. Never letting me feel like I am less than, like I am not beautiful and worthy and anything short of a goddess.

And though his words do not negate the years of inner torment that I have faced at my own hands, they make me feel… for moments, in those moments, that I am those things that he says: beautiful, gorgeous, desirable.

That I am worth… being wanted, pursued, loved.