He Told Me

Because there is nothing wrong with being a slut.

He told me I was a slut and he sounded surprised.
He told me I was a slut, he who knows me so well,
But he sounded surprised.

He who knew how I desired him;
Knew how lust burned in my veins.
He who could have had me then.

With less than a breath he could have had me sucking his cock;
My lips wrapped round it, my throat full.

In a heartbeat he could have been inside my cunt;
Sliding into my dampness and filling me with his length.

In a moment he could have turned me over and taken my ass;
Stretching me with his hardness, hearing me moan.

He could have had me but he resisted.
Chose not to take what I was offering so openly.
But he told me I was a slut.

He was so right.

Revealing The Slut

I’m a slut myself. I am comfortable with that, proud of it even. I’ve pretty much given up suggesting, even in fun, that I might not be. I’m far too eager for all things sensual to make that story convincing. Admittedly I’m sometimes quite reserved, sometimes quite proper. I like to think I’m a discriminating slut after all, but still, I am who I am.
However, this post isn’t actually about me.

Mat, for it is he of whom we speak, loves to project a “good boy” image. He loves to make out that he’s the sweet innocent little boy, who is being corrupted and coerced into depravity. Naturally that’s not the whole story. Oh yes, he protests what a good boy he is. But push him further and eventually his behaviour changes. His body loosens up, his eyes widen, and he admits that maybe he is a bit, just a tiny bit, slutty after all.

But for me the exploration is just beginning. With gentle persistence I push him further still.

There is a sinuous twist to his hips as he finally surrenders to his nature. Whether it’s writhing on the bed licking up his own cum or pushing his ass up eagerly to be beaten or fucked. A sensuous movement that speaks of desire, and uninhibited pleasure.

I love getting him to that point. Seeing him revelling in his own sexuality. Depraved, wanton and sensual.

When he looks up at me, and our eyes meet. He, admitting what he is, and knowing that I can see it too, that moment is intoxicating.

That pure rush of pleasure drives me on. That feeling of power, of having stripped away his good boy facade to reach that inner core. The pleasure of seeing him, submissive, initially accepting whatever pleasure or pain I choose, but also then embracing it, wanting it, begging for more.

This is my delight. This is what my Domme side craves. This is why.

Asking For What You Want

I sometimes think I have a very split image of myself.

On one hand I am a beautiful, sexy girl. On the other I’m an almost middle-aged (when does middle age start these days) woman with a little more wobble than I should have.

That particular issue isn’t helped by the difficulty of taking a good photo of my face. There are some good ones, but equally there are some which can only be described as ‘unfortunate’. This is partly due to my ability to blink faster than a flash can fire, but it does leave me wondering which image other people see when they look at me.

Equally I feel a tension between ‘good girl’ and ‘slut’. My careful preservation of my virginity in my youth has left me with a limited experience of penetrative sex (there’s other stuff you can do, it’s also good fun). So, in some senses I am a very good girl. On the other hand my sexual feelings and fantasies land me firmly in the slut category. I think until now though, there’s been a sense that I was actually a good girl, to the extent that I have been very uncertain whether I would ever actually be able to unleash my behaviour to match my fantasies.

Then finally the opportunity occurred to have sex with another man, and even more delightfully as an MMF threesome with Perrin. Surely slut heaven.

My mind had been bouncing back and forth between desire and terror contemplating this, a terror increasingly composed of the fear that my hesitancy would result in me being unable to take the opportunity presented, and the disappointment in myself I would inevitably have felt.

When it came to it, things started gently enough. I became aware of my own desire, and longing for sex, but felt utterly unable to express it. I’m very aware that ‘good girls’ don’t express that kind of desire, and I had suddenly no idea how to handle the situation. My awkwardness was reduced slightly once I’d managed to get naked. There’s a certain implication of a naked girl in a collar in that kind of situation, which helps.

What happened next, was incredibly wonderful. As things heated up, I was encouraged, if not forced, to vocalise my desires. At one level, I was immediately aware that this provided a nice sanity check. “I want you to fuck me now”, is fairly unambiguous, and lessens the chances of ending up in an “I thought they said yes” type situation.
Equally, it pushes my submissive buttons in good ways.

Most of all though, it felt good to say, and be accepted. To let myself acknowledge, I’m a slut, I want sex, and that is ok. I’m not a bad person for being this way. I’m allowed to want this, to enjoy this, and revel in it.
Yay, I’m a slut. A beautiful, sexy, slut. It feels good.

And, yes, I did get what I asked for. In spades.