Opening the Jewellery Box

She told him she was greedy. He said he liked it. He liked the fact that she was greedy for orgasms, greedy for his cock, greedy for the breath-stopping smack of his hand on her bare arse, and oh so greedy for the tender sensation of his lips upon hers.

Two full days and nights and she still wants more. She always wants more. He plays Vampires with her, sensually biting her neck and pretending to drain her blood. But in truth she feels like the vampire, never satiated, always wanting more than he could possibly ever give.

They get ready to leave. She doesn't want to go. She can feel that she's a changed woman. She has been taken in ways that she never has before; ways that she's only fantasied about; ways that have brought home how she has been transformed.

She feels submissive now alright. She's been fighting it for a long time, not sure if this was just something to play at, something that she can just lock away and bring out on special occasions, like an unusual piece of jewellery, polished and exquisite but too much for everyday wear.

She takes one last look around the room. She'll never forget it. The pretty but harsh carpet that has scraped her knees sore as she knelt in front of him, the armchair where he has sat whilst she oh so desperately sucked his cock, the bed where he has filled her with his stories, his cum and his love.

They leave the room empty, but the emptiness is inside her now. As they wander, she tries to enjoy their last few hours, but the tears roll unbidden, hidden behind sunglasses or sideways looks into shop windows.

They're on a mission to take some photos, which is good, she thinks. She's alright as long as there are people around: people laughing, talking, pointing, chatting, nodding. But then they take a wrong turning and have to walk down a quiet path. There's no one there to hide from and it's a mistake. She's usually so good with stuff like this. She's usually so able to keep control, to hold it together, to push it deep below where it slowly dissolves away unexamined.

Last night he asked her if being Submissive made her feel vulnerable. She told him it was the absolute core of it...the true jewel of her submission, for her, is being able to reveal that vulnerability to someone she trusts implicitly.

Too late, she has realised that it's not that easy to force back into the box.

Need and Want

Lying on the bed, she grips the phone to her ear. She must be careful. If she writhes too much she'll lose the signal. Again.

In no uncertain terms he spells out the situation. He tells her that she needs him now. She needs this. She must have the domination, their calls. She requires it. It's not a choice.

He wants her to need it.

She know she wants it. She craves it. It's the first thing she thinks about when she wakes up: staggering out of her dreams with the remembered feeling of his cock inside her, his lips upon her own, his voice whispering in her ear.

But, she wants to want it, not to need it. Need implies no choice. Isn't it better to choose it, she thinks? Doesn't choosing something give it more value? "Need" just feels dark and groping, desperate, hungry....weak. She doesn't like feeling weak. She doesn't like needing anything.

The more he talks, the more confused she feels. Need merges into wanting, and desire becomes desperation, until she's not quite sure about anything any more.

And it niggles her. She wants to be sure. She needs to be sure.

The Biker...Punishment

He'd texted her last night, asked her to meet him. It sent a shiver through her just to read the words. Just to imagine what if...but she made some excuse; conjured up an Italian class. She couldn't let him become too much of her life. She had to protect herself. It would be madness to let him get right under her skin. Not him. He was too dangerous.

The next day he asks her to wear jeans and flat shoes. The text comes seconds before the school run and she makes her daughter late running back upstairs to change into her Levis and a pair of Gladiator sandals.

He's in the car park as usual, although this time on a bright yellow two stroke Suzuki 125 dirt bike. She grimaces. It looks like a kids' bike. She can tell he's annoyed at her disappointment and she turns her face away to stop him seeing the blood rush to her cheeks.

They walk in silence to the woods. No tea. No talk. What am I doing here, she wonders to herself as she remembers the pile of housework at home, the emails that need answering, the accounts that need sorting.

"So, where's the Ducati?" she finally asks.
Nothing.
"You know, I don't even know your name...." she tries again.

He doesn't reply, but instead leads her through a mass of brambles until they hit an ancient Oak. A tyre is hanging from one of its branches, swaying gently in what breeze manages to get through the undergrowth around them.

"Bend over it," he growls. She knows better than to say anything else by now, but instead threads her body through the tyre and looks down at her toes in the sandals beneath.

"No collar for you today, I want you to feel this as you are."

She gasps as he roughly pushes his hands under her belly and tugs at her zip, before pulling her jeans and knickers down her thighs. He doesn't even touch her arse before he smacks, one sharp smack following the one before, first on one cheek and then the other.

Every time she she feels his hand swing back she stiffens, the tyre swinging madly by now as she writhes beneath him.

"Keep still," he orders. "Keep your feet on the floor. Every time that tyre moves I will add three more with this." He waves a stiff twig in front of her face. She knows instinctively it will hurt so much more than his hand.

And it does. Without the electricity of the flesh to flesh contact, the thwacks from the twig are real, tangible pain that leaves a stinging sensation so fierce it draws tears down her cheeks as she tries desperately to keep the tyre still.

Eventually, she feels herself go limp and he stops, only to come around to the front of the tyre. There, he picks her head up by her hair, twirling a twist of it into his hands. As he pulls it he squats and kisses her. And that honey touch of his lips makes up for every particle of pain she has had to endure. The invasive grope of his tongue makes her stomach lurch and her hands reach out for him, but he steps back.

"Now then, Italian student, what is "my owner" in Italian...?"
She thinks desperately for a moment.
"Mio Padrone?" she half-asks.
"How the fuck should I know...but I like that...it sounds right. From now on, you are only to address me as Mio Padrone...you understand?"

She nods.
"Pardon?"
"Yes, Mio Padrone, I understand."
"Good, now where were we..?" He lifts her, positions himself on the tyre and draws her onto his lap where they sit, her legs wrapped around him, her head on her shoulder. They drift gently, no sound to disturb them except the creak of the rope above as it holds their weight.

Eventually, she rouses herself out of her dreamy state and they make their way back to his bike. She looks at it: small and smelly, with no real room for a passenger. She's disappointed that she isn't going to be getting a ride today. She has been looking forward to it all week. He is looking at her with what looks like a glint of amusement in his eye. The sadist.

"Come on," he says and he almost bounces his way over the bike. They walk it out of the car park and into the forest until they come to a wide dirt track.

"Sit," he says. She makes herself comfortable on a log, as comfortable as she can possibly be given her sore backside. He kickstarts the bike and careers off into a show of his skill; standing on the footpegs and leading the off-roader through a series of manouevres that make her smile. He looks like a kid with a secret; young and vulnerable. It's a side she never imagined she would see.

He squeals up in front of her.
"So?" he says, removing his helmet.
"So?" she replies. She's a little bored now; she's had enough with his showing off.
"So....are you gonna get on it or not...I'm going to teach you how to ride!"

She jumps up, very aware that this time it's her that's grinning like a kid.

His Canvas

Barely breathing, she feels as though she's getting her air supply through osmosis, so determined she is to keep still for him.

Her legs are slightly spread, arms at her sides, fingers splayed, her whole body still and silent on the bed. The room is hot, sultry. A tiny rivulet of sweat runs between her naked breasts. She hopes it won't spoil the effect. He notices and wipes it off, before switching the fan to high. That's better, she thinks, until the breeze ruffles her hair. She's worried it might disturb his concentration, but, no, his focus is impenetrable.

She thought it might tickle, but instead his long silk brush maps out a delicate erotic butterfly trail around her body: over hot-pink painted toes, around the inside of her knee, across her pussy and into her belly button.

The brush circles her breast, slowly spiralling its way towards her nipple, like a solitary climber on an expdition to reach the peak. As the soft fibres caress her nipple she gives into the most gentle of orgasms. He waits patiently, before resuming and tracing his path to her throat where she can feel her veins throbbing.

He is her Raphael, her Millais. She is his Elisabetta, his Ophelia. She is his masterpiece: a spectacular cloud of colour, texture, light and shadow.

In truth, she knows who she is and she loves being her. But she revels in these rare moments when she puts that aside and becomes whomever, whatever he wants to create.

Exposed

I visited this exhibition this week at the Tate Modern.

It's an exhibition about voyeurism - right up my street or so I thought.

Of course, my friend and I were attracted by the element of sleaze. But it's interesting how sleazey sleaze can get.

It was extremely clever in that you came out feeling just ever so slightly dirty. What we both thought might have been erotic, was far from it. Spying on people leaves a slightly unpleasant taste in the mouth, and seeing photos taken by people spying on other people can actually be said to be even worse.

There were elements that made me smile - a "paparazzi" shot of the artist Edgar Degas coming out of a French lavatory was one. But then we moved onto photographers such as Tazio Secciaroli and Marcello Geppetti who were famed for the relentless pursuit of film stars and celebrities...and the real downside of voyeurism began to reveal itself.

And then we have voyeurism and desire. For anyone used to elaborately staged porn films and airbrushed pictures this was a real shock. Watching couples humping with dirty washing in the background is not particularly erotic, partly because the munitae of daily life just reminds you that these are real people, not models.

When desire stops, death and violence begin. We saw pictures of a lynching, of a crowd gathering after a man dies in the street, and, most disturbingly for me, Lee Miler's photograph of the corpse of the beautiful daughter of the Burgermaster of Leipzig, who had just committed suicide at the end of WW2.

Of course, the flipside to voyeurism is exhibitionism, and there's plenty of that in Kohei Yoshiyuki's series of photos "The Park" where voyeurs stalk and even touch couples making out. To photograph them, the photographer too had to become one of the voyeurs.

I have only ever had one personal experience of exhibitionism. It was a long time ago, when I was about twenty. I was on holiday in Corfu with my first husband, then merely a boy-friend, and we'd hired out a motorbike for the day. Giddy with the freedom of being able to wear nothing but shorts, t-shirts, flipflops and no helmets, we speeded around the island for hours until we sped off the road and very narrowly missed a very gruesome death.

We limped back to our campsite, motorbike left in a ditch somewhere, hit our tent and had sex in the middle of the afternoon as if it was both our very first and the very last time. I'm not sure at what point I became aware that we had drawn a crowd, but I do remember knowing that they were there and suddenly everything became magnified. My moans became louder, our love-making more frenzied, and this continued until we eventually gave them a show that drew applause.

As soon as it was over, however, embarrassment set it, for me at least. The ex, nonchalant as usual, went out foraging for food, embracing the attention as he went. I, meanwhile, hid in my sleeping bag determined to wait until the crowd had dispersed to venture out. That was until I realised that I had left a quarter of a watermelon in the corner of our tent and the whole tent, sleeping bags included, was over-run with eager armies of both black and red ants. I crawled out of there as fast as I could manage, to a round of applause that I can still cringe about today.

Thanks goodness no one took any pictures.

A Dom's Tale

He leans back, Godfather-like, in the chair. She's kneeling in front of him. Collared: she's half with him, half en vacence in her head.

His cock stiffens as, trembling, she rests her face against his knee. Slowly, she starts kissing her way down his calf, running her tongue through his hair, circling his ankle, until she reaches his foot. And there in an agony of ecstasy, she kisses it.

He asks her if she feels humiliated. Her head shakes out her answer from far below. Perhaps it's the sheer exoticism of abasement, of doing something so taboo she would never, ever countenance it outside the four walls of this room.

She's shuddering now, almost crawling on the floor. Her back is before him, he can see the length of her spine, the shape of her arse through her transparent pink panties, the redness of her arse. The redness he gave to her.

She's moving up his thigh now, towards his upright cock. As she passes she takes him in deep, sucking him to the back of her throat. Even when she gags and comes up for air with a choking noise, and oh how he likes that sound of choking, she swiftly returns to pounce on his cock, devouring it, aiming to please him, to make him happy. To make him happy with her.

She leaves his cock and starts down his inner thigh. Her hair is tickling against his leg and he can hear her moaning. This was her idea, not his. She'll do this occasionally. She'll slip in a "I have been thinking of", or "I'd like to try.." He remembers the embarrassment on her face as she told him that she wanted to do this, to sit at his feet. The memory of that embarrassed expression makes him throb. He wonders if she has a list of these things, or whether seeds are planted in her head and she just reveals them as they blossom. When she is ready.

She's reached his other foot now. Her arse is high up in the air now and the sight of it makes him stand. He know she likes this. To feel her smallness beside him. To feel her weakness revealed against his strength.

With a lion-like growl he sends rivulets of cum down her back. Streams of spunk snake down her spine. She's so carried away with the fantasy she doesn't feel him write his name on her back. She doesn't need to. She's already admitted she belongs to him.

Bruises

She likes looking at them in the mirror.

She's noticed that different coloured knickers can set off her bruises. She likes her red lacy knickers when they're fresh and dark, a black handprint against her pearl-white skin, made all the more noticeable by the scarlet lace above.

Perhaps it's just coincidence that the lace licks at her clit as she walks.

Logically, her mind revolts at the idea of being bruised, or it used to. Now, the thought of seeing his marks on her can make her knees tremble at the oddest of times: when she's getting out of the bath, trying on a dress in a shop, changing at the swimming pool.

When they don't see each other it's a tangible connection that brings every pain/pleasure moment gushing back to her.

One night she's taken into hospital. She can't breathe. The rattle in her chest has got too much and her airways have closed up. She has to fight for every breath. Her nails have turned blue and one eye has red road-maps criss-crossed across its surface. She knows asthma can kill you; she knows someone who died from it. But she's more afraid they'll make her wear a gown that will show her bruises.

She doesn't want to share them.

The Biker....The Smell of Submission

She doesn't feel like going. There is a continuous drizzle of rain, she's got PMT and, quite frankly, she is annoyed with him. Last time she had given him her mobile before she left and he hasn't used it. Not once. Not even a text.

She decides not to dress up. She doesn't need to as she isn't going to meet him. She picks jeans rather than a dress, deliberately. But she changes her top three times just to get that right level of nonchalance, just in case she changes her mind.

And of course, she does.

He's the only one in the car park. Even the tea van has decided not to show up. She parks the car but sits in it, not bothering to get out. Let him come to me today, she thinks. She is feeling petty, annoyed. Annoyed with him for not getting in touch. Annoyed with herself for being here.

He's sat on his Ducati, smoking a cigarette. She didn't know that he smoked. She sighs. Something else she misses. Something else he could so easily tempt her with. This man is bad for her in so many ways, but she loves it.

He doesn't look over, just finishes his cigarette and starts the bike. She sits up. Shit, he's going without her. Two seconds later and he is at her window.
"Follow me," is all he says.

Quickly, she starts the car and manoeuvres out of the car park. Damn the rain, she curses as she peers into the gloom for him.

He's waiting at the junction. They drive towards the main hub of traffic, onto the North Circular. She wonders where he is taking her. Perhaps he's taking her back to his place. Maybe that's why he wanted her to bring the car.

She's a little bemused when he pulls into a retail park. Mothercare. B and Q. An electrical superstore. She wonders what he's doing. Perhaps she wasn't meant to follow him after all and she's going to look like a nutter when he realises she's there. But he's waiting for her, at the door to a sofa shop.

She smiles. In her wildest dreams she hadn't imagined she'd ever be going furniture shopping with him. From not phoning to this? Men are strange.

He takes her firmly by the arm and guides her to the back of the shop. A few eager salesmen try to descend on them but he waves them away with a polite smile. "Later, when we're ready," he tells them.

He leads her to a brown Chesterfield sofa and tells her to sit back.

"Close your eyes," he whispers. His lips are pressed up close to her ear. She feels her cunt start to quiver. She feels fidgety. A little hot.

"Close them," he repeats and she does. She hopes he's not going to ask her to do anything strange here. In the middle of a forest is one thing, but right here, in public, in front of all these people. She wonders how she can say no, how she can refuse, what words she can use.

"Now, " he begins again, his voice crashing into her thoughts, "I want you to take a deep breath and tell me what you smell.."

"Leather," she replies, "New leather."
"Breathe it in again, try to clear your mind and tell me what you can really smell."

It takes a few moments and then it hits her.....on her knees in the forest, the sound of birds in the trees, the weight of his cock in her mouth, the floaty far away feeling, the desperate need to please him.....her collar."

"Can you smell it?" he ask.
She opens her eyes wide and nods.

She has to cling onto the sofa arm to stop herself from slipping off and clinging to his knees.

"Remember that...every time you use one of your fancy handbags...every time you pass someone wearing a leather jacket.....every time you pick up one of your husband's fucking shoes.....that's it....that's the scent of your collar.....that's the smell of your submission."

Dante

I have always wanted to read Dante. I am learning Italian at the moment and have decided to attempt to read The Divine Comedy in both English and Italian at the same time. No pressure, eh!

What inspired my love of Dante was actually the Hannibal film. I am a bit of a Hannibal film nut to be honest. I spent my second honeymoon in Florence, not for the culture but to follow in Hannibal's footsteps. It was very romantic! But enough of that.... back to Dante.

There is a point, in the Hannibal movie, where Hannibal recites Dante's first sonnet from La Vita Nuova to Allergra. It's a delicious moment, and one has more than slight DS overtones, at least for me...

I am your master
See your heart
And of this burning heart
Your heart
She trembling and Obediently eats.
Weeping, I saw him then depart from me.

Put to music, it is even more spectacular. You can hear it here

The Biker ...cont

She knows it's mad, that she should stay away, but she can't help herself. She's there the next week, the same day, the same time. It's another hot day and this time she has chosen a wispy, floaty dress that reveals her bare shoulders.

He's waiting for her, sat at the table, two teas by his elbow. She takes the place next to him, only barely aware of the looks of the other bikers as they acknowledge her joining him.

"How did you know I'd come?" she asks.
He shrugs, confidently, arrogantly even.
"I knew you couldn't resist it. Moth..flame...you know the story..."

They sit silently, side by side. Her stomach is flipping, turning somersaults, waiting for him to make a move, to say something, to break the tension.

"Open your legs," he suddenly says.
"Pardon?"
"You heard me, open your legs."

She leans back against the table and spreads her knees wide, desperately trying to control her breathing as she does so. She realises that she looks odd, demurely dressed and yet sitting oh so slut-like in the middle of a car park of motorbikers.

"Good girl," he murmurs, and she feels a shiver of thrill run down her spine.

"I bought something for you,"
"Muhu," she replies. She can hardly speak now. She's afraid to open her mouth and talk, anxious that only gobledegook would come out.

"Come," she follows him, slightly disappointed they're not going to his bike. He notices her expression and smiles.
"You have to earn that now."

They make their way into the forest, past swampy ponds and trees struck down by lightening or storms and left there to rot, past fetid funghi and a maze of horseshoe prints, until they find somewhere quiet.

"Kneel," he almost whispers, but she can still hear him despite the sounds of the birds, the wind, the cars in the distance. His voice is cutting into her soul.

She kneels in slow motion, aware of the comfort of the mossy ground beneath.
"Look down," he mutters, "spread your knees wide apart and sit back on your ankles."

She's starting to tremble now; she can feel herself changing; the heat rising and her mouth start to dry.

She smells it before she sees it. It smells like his jacket, of old leather, or soft leather that's been worn in. The scent of it, of him, fills her nostrils as he fastens it around her neck.

This collar is thick. Soft, but thick. It feels heavy.

And then she hears the lead. Metal chains that chink as he fixes it to the collar. For a moment he runs the cold metal along her shoulder, she can see him observing the goosebumps that suddenly spring up in its wake.

And then he steps back, rattling the chain as he goes. The chain is long and she has to crawl for a long time until she reaches him. By the time she is once again in front of him, her knees are covered in mud, leaves, twigs. Her demure floaty designer dress is unrecognisable.

Her unzips his black leather trousers and takes out his cock. It's already hard, waiting for her. He shakes the lead, and she takes the cue, moving forward to take him into her mouth. It grazes the back of her throat, neither of them need to move as it's throbbing so much, each throb taking his cock deeper and deeper. She closes her eyes, ready to take in more, but he pulls it out and comes, with a low moan, all down the front of her dress. Her breasts are covered in his spunk; it's dripping from her shoulders and down her cleavage. It trips off her own orgasm, an orgasm so powerful she has to get on all fours.

"Leave it," he growls, as she goes to wipe herself off.

He allows her to walk back, but he keeps the collar and lead on, at least until they are in sight of the car park. She feels drunk, stumbling so often that he eventually has to take her by her hand.

They stop, and he deftly spreads his cum over her bare shoulders and breasts before kissing her gently: soft featherlight kisses that calm her down and bring her back to earth.

And then he bows, motioning to the Ducati waiting for them.
"Now, tell me, where would you like to go?"

Uniforms

I have a bit of a thing about men in military uniform, especially desert and Middle Eastern combat. Guns are obligatory of course. And the bigger, the better. But the most important thing are the boots.

I go swimming once a week and often have the lucky honour to share the hot tub afterwards with a soldier who tells me long stories about terrible things that happened over there, or makes jokes about the fact that his Army issue boots were made of compressed cardboard.

Half of me is entranced by the stories, the other half a little bemused at seeing behind the fantasy. Hearing that soldiers often have to buy their own boots if they want decent ones really does bring it home what they go through. And I don't even want to think about death or being maimed.

But the fantasy persists. I think my Dad is responsible: bringing me up on a diet of black and white post war moves such as Ice Cold in Alex might have perhaps started things off. And then I found david Lean's Lawrence of Arabia, and Desert Fox and I was hooked on my dirty little secret.

In my twenties I made a pilgrimage to Thailand where I visited the Bridge on The River Qwai, travelling to Kanchanaburi on the infamous Burma-Siam 'death railway'. It was perhaps one of the most moving things I have done in my whole life.
Soldiers are probably at the top of my list of people I most admire and respect.

However, there is someone I care for who has expressed an interest on joining the Army. And I hope that he doesn't, although it is purely for selfish reasons.

I still harbour day dreams of being captured and used mercilessly by a combat-clad young man wearing desert boots.