Forced Service

He is naked and ready to serve his mistress. His manhood confined in a cage, locked with a key she wears about her neck. The pleasure tonight is to be hers.
“Come here”, she beckons, “bend over”.

Pulled down onto all fours he crouches nervously. Her hand strokes across his ass bringing coolness as she lubes him up. He whimpers slightly as she feels him forcing a butt plug into place. It stretches him and he struggles to accept it. She fastens a strap across it, locking into the chastity device. He has no escape from the intruder in his body.

“Now pleasure me with your tongue, Boy” she purrs, “you’ll wear that toy until I cum”.
She lies back on the bed and pulls his head down between her legs. As his face is enveloped in her sweetness she moans with delight.

As his tongue explores her folds his cock struggles to rise but the cage holds it firm. His pleasure in his mistress brings an inescapable pain, a pain only to be ended with her pleasure.
Desperately he redoubles his efforts to please and his mistress moans with pleasure as he takes her over the edge. She cums, pulling his head towards her, well served.

Time Together At Last

It had been a weekend of frustration, of good behaviour and secret glances and shared fantasies.

When Mat and I finally went to bed together there was a sense of relief, of release.
He was wearing silky panties, had been all day, another secret shared. I wanted him and he me but I had put him under a chastity ban so I had something else in mind.

I got him to wear the strap-on, over the panties, over his increasingly hard cock.
I commanded him to fuck me with it. I lay back on the bed and he knelt between my legs and penetrated me with the dildo.

We were so close, gazing at each other, but I knew the pleasure I was feeling was all mine. With my legs over his hips as he pounded into me I wanked myself to orgasm knowing this pleasure was not his to share, loving his service to me. My delight in this situation was so strong that within a few minutes I managed to repeat the experience.

Tired and sated, I knew it was time to sleep, so my boy got naked. His cock was still hard, and I was delighted to see it. I took some soft rope and tied it around the base looping it around his balls and the shaft a couple of times before pulling it back through his legs. I tugged on it, pulling it tightly against his boy-cunt and felt his cock move in response. Then I settled down, rope held firmly in my hand, to sleep with my bound boy beside me.

Somehow aroused, sleepy and satisfied I drifted off to sleep.

HNT – Nearly In The Rigging

RiggingSometimes what happens can only be in our heads.

The weekend was wonderful but frustrating. We were staying with family so that we could all have a day out together. A day by the sea, a day visiting a historic ship.

But when your family doesn’t know that you’re poly (much less about kink) you have to be on your best ‘public’ behaviour all the time. The frustration was made no better by actually being in public.

I would have had my boy kneel at my feet, so I could stroke his hair and hold him. Instead we acknowledged the desire standing as close together as we dared while we had a moment alone.

When we walked onto the deck of the ship together we looked at the expanse of deck in the sunshine. We gazed up at the masts towering above us. We cast envious eyes on the rope, everywhere (everywhere!) about the ship. If I could, I would have had my boy naked in moments, tied him tight to the rigging and flogged him right there on the deck with whatever piece of rope came to hand. Instead I grabbed my camera and took a photo that says something of where our hearts were, of where we wanted to be, of the fantasy that lives inside every waking moment.

I will say that when we finally got home we turned that frustration and fantasy into something real and special but that is another story entirely.

Happy HNT!

I Want To Make Him Cry

I want to hurt him but I want so much more than that. I want to reach his heart. I want to touch the depths of his soul. I want to tear him into little pieces and then gently put him back together.

My boy moves me so deeply. He can make me laugh, cry, gasp, scream, squirt and cum.

I can make him laugh, whimper, moan, squeal and cum but I cannot ever make him cry.

So when the moment comes I will hurt him. I will pour all of my love into it and I will do the only thing I can do. I will whip him until I cry, until my arm is exhausted and my energy spent, until I have given him everything I am.
I wonder if that will be enough.

Waking Up With an Erection

I woke up early and I woke up horny. Almost immediately my first thoughts were of my boy, still asleep, of how I wanted to be inside him, to fuck him. My clit was swollen with desire; I didn’t even need to touch it to know that. I lay still, consumed by hunger for his body, needing to take what was mine.
Only one thing was missing: my cock; without it I felt incomplete. My lust unsatiable. I grew increasingly frustrated, I lacked the means to satisfy my needs.

Eventually I awoke enough to know that this unbearable state could not continue. I got up and fetched down the box containing my strap on. My boy roused enough to understand what was coming. While he slipped out to the bathroom I slipped on my beautiful cock.

I lay on my back, putting the dildo in place, moving the straps into position. As I fastened the buckle on my hip I felt the tension flow away. I was complete.
The anguished throbbing of my clit faded as I stroked my own erection. I curled over on my side, relaxed, my hand curled around my cock. I could be calm now; my body was ready to satisfy my desires.

My boy came to me now. Curled on his side, I nestled behind him. My strap on pressing against his ass, telling him how I felt, what I wanted.
I had woken with an erection. I was ready to use it.

Ashamed Of Myself

There are some things I find very hard, if not impossible, to say out loud. The words may echo round my head, my heart may be shouting them but I cannot get my lips to articulate them. This blog exists at least partly for that reason; because some things may not be spoken but may be written.

Perrin has written of his depression, and it has certainly had an impact on our relationship. While I love Perrin very much, it is hard seeing him so withdrawn and unhappy, and that in itself then affects me, drawing us into a vicious circle of misery that seems very hard to break. As part of this the D/s side of our relationship has almost entirely ceased. This seems to be a sensible decision for the moment and yet I am finding it very hard to be a vanilla wife.

I have finally come to a point where I can accept my submission as a part of me and have found it surprisingly easy to talk of with others. Admitting that I am submissive and discussing kink with other people who can understand has been a liberating experience. Expressing it directly however, admitting my needs and desires to my Dom, that I still stumble over.

In my head I can beg to be fucked, to be pinned down and used. I can ask for a spanking, knowing I would offer my body willingly to the pain. I still cannot speak the words.

I am ashamed. Ashamed of my desires, of my needs. Seeing them as dirty, and expecting to be rejected for them. Sure that I will be rejected. Not that my requests might be turned down; there is a difference between a dominant denying a submissive’s requests, deliberately, knowing what they are doing and a rejection of their submission, a turning away in disgust from them. I am afraid too, that my desires might be met, reluctantly, attempting merely to satisfy me, rather than for my Dom’s pleasure and delight.

I am ashamed to be so helplessly submissive. Unable to completely bury these feelings, unable to be purely vanilla, to forget this part of me for now. Ashamed I cannot let it go. Hating and loving my submission simultaneously.

I read other people’s blogs, read of the pleasure of submission. I see the joy in Mat’s face, head back, eyes closed, his throat bared to me. I remember those feelings. They thrill me, delight me, arouse me. They are more than sex. More intimate, more powerful. More.

But I cannot have them merely by wishing. And pretending would be worse than not having them at all. So somehow I have to let it go for now.

I’m No Saint

As a child I once considered sainthood as a possible career path. After a while however I noticed a serious problem with this plan. Sainthood for girls seemed generally to require two main attributes, martyrdom and virginity. Being martyred, while not highly attractive, didn’t seem too much like a deal breaker. Virginity on the other hand was clearly going to prove more challenging.

To be fair, I technically retained my virginity past the national average but even before then, it was clear that celibacy in any real and meaningful sense was not going to be an option.
It was also clear that it didn’t have to be. There was sufficient male interest to keep me satisfied even if some of it was a little unconventional and unsaintly.

I’ve never been good at going without sexual attention for more than a few days. I start by getting extremely grumpy, but if I (and those close to me) survive that for a couple of weeks then my libido simply fades away to nothing.
As I get older I worry more about that stage. I worry that desire won’t return or that it will grow weaker. I’ve come to realise that my sexuality is an important part of my identity and losing that frightens me. In some ways it’s worse because I actually know what it’s like, having lost my libido while on the pill.

Recently, for a host of good reasons, I have gone without for a few days. I worry initially that I am finding it too easy. Then reassuringly my desire leads to frustration and a keen need for sexual pleasure.

Then finally frustration becomes opportunity. I am lost in my lover’s arms. Lost in the pleasure he sends thrilling through me. Seeking for and finding pleasure until I cum, shivering and shaking with its intensity.
I’m certainly no saint.