Needing My Boy

I need my little boy. I need him here now. I need to see him kneeling naked at my feet looking up at me. I need to hold his head in my hands and see the submission in his eyes.

I need to slap his cheek and feel him kiss the hand which hurts him. I need to bind his wrists in rope and hold him fast. I need to whip him hard and make him cry. I need to wipe those tears from his eyes with kisses.

I need to rape him and use him. I need him to push his ass towards me, the eager slut I know he can be. I need play with his cock until he begs to cum, and to watch his expression when I say ‘No’. I need his hands and his mouth and his cock to give me pleasure until, all lust exhausted, I can hold him gently in my arms, my good little boy.

I need him to be mine.

My Darkest Fantasy

The thing about feeling ill is that you end up spending a lot of time in bed, thinking; and the less capable you are of being kinky somehow the more you end up thinking kinky. My fantasies tend to range from things I’ve done, to things I’d like to do, to the totally unrealistic (but very hot). I suspect this comes somewhere between the last two categories.

It starts gently enough. We are together, my Master and I, with time ahead of us. We snuggle. He tells me he loves me. He tells me he wants to play with me.

“I want you to be a good girl”, he soothes, “I know you can do this”.

Then it begins.

There are no details here, because whatever occurs, is his desire, and even in fantasy, to seek to describe it, would make it my own, but there are possibilities…

He commands and expects obedience. I obey. His demands continue, and I become frightened. I am cheeky, seeking to lighten the mood, to draw softness from him, instead of this implacable hardness. Perhaps he gags me now, to silence me.

He continues to play with me. I hear myself beg for mercy, but there is no respite. I start to sob, unable to bear what he is doing, what he is asking of me. I expect him to stop now, surely he will feel I have taken enough. He does not stop. I cannot believe what he is doing, but I struggle to endure it.

He continues to an ending. It does not end with my orgasm, although he may have ripped them from me as part of his play. It may end with his, or simply when he has finished whatever he intended. Yet there is an ending. He walks away, and I am left alone, still sobbing. I feel used, empty of myself. I feel the pain of submission, the reality of his control.

Then suddenly his arms are around me. He comforts my tears, and I cling to him, my rescuer, as surely as he has just been my torturer. He holds me close, and tells me he loves me, that he is proud of me, that I have pleased him.

I know then that I would willingly endure it all again.