He pulls her up by her hair and shoves his hardening cock into her mouth.
Thrusting it to the back of her throat he only stops long enough for her to answer the question "Who are you?"
Again, he pushes his cock in deep and then brings it out for her to reply to his growl of "What are you?"
And he does this over and over again.
She's on her knees, back against the bed, still in her dress, stockings and boots. Her hair is twisted in his tight grasp. She can hardly breathe as she takes his penis deeper and deeper each time. His hips pushed up hard against her face, all she can smell is sex and denim.
But slowly it's happening. She's starting to feel submissive again, oh so very submissive, and this time it's for real. It's her that's being submissive. No barriers, no alter egos. It's truly her.
The next morning, as she sits astride his cock and feels the wildness start to take over, she's no longer moping about her missing alter ego. As far as she's concerned, The Little Submissive can just stay lost. She's got him now.
Monday 29 November 2010
RIP - Part One
She'd relied on her for months, her alter ego, the submissive side she was comfortable showing. After all, if The Little Submissive was being submissive it didn't have to mean that she was. She could still retain the illusion (especially to herself)of being in control.
She could stand back and let the Little Submissive take all the pain whilst she assimilated what was happening.
Of course the Little Submissive got a lot of the pleasure too, but she didn't realise that. She barely remembered who she was when she was being Little Submissive. But she knew she liked being her. The intensity was breathtaking, and addictive.
She also knew Little Submissive was slightly dangerous. Little Submissive had fantasies about being a slave; she wanted to be hurt; and she was greedily selfish, like a baby bird demanding to be fed....and fed...and fed.
And at times Little Submissive wanted to stay so much that she had trouble bringing herself back.
Until the day Little Submissive disappeared. Just before stroke one of the belt she was there, endorphined up, in some submissive dream-like state, but by stroke two the Little Submissive had gone and she was there alone to take the full lash of his belt. And it hurt. More than she had ever imagined it would.
He seemed more than delighted. He wanted her, so it would seem. She, however wanted her Little Submissive back. After all, it was her Little Submissive as much as his. The Little Submissive belonged to her as much as him.
Without the Little Submissive it just didn't seem right. She sat at his feet and felt empty. He told her to kiss his boot and she didn't want to do it. Indeed, she rather hoped he'd go away. She didn't feel submissive. She knelt with her head on his denim clad thigh and wondered if she'd ever feel that intensity ever again, if she'd be able to feel her dark side ever again.
She could stand back and let the Little Submissive take all the pain whilst she assimilated what was happening.
Of course the Little Submissive got a lot of the pleasure too, but she didn't realise that. She barely remembered who she was when she was being Little Submissive. But she knew she liked being her. The intensity was breathtaking, and addictive.
She also knew Little Submissive was slightly dangerous. Little Submissive had fantasies about being a slave; she wanted to be hurt; and she was greedily selfish, like a baby bird demanding to be fed....and fed...and fed.
And at times Little Submissive wanted to stay so much that she had trouble bringing herself back.
Until the day Little Submissive disappeared. Just before stroke one of the belt she was there, endorphined up, in some submissive dream-like state, but by stroke two the Little Submissive had gone and she was there alone to take the full lash of his belt. And it hurt. More than she had ever imagined it would.
He seemed more than delighted. He wanted her, so it would seem. She, however wanted her Little Submissive back. After all, it was her Little Submissive as much as his. The Little Submissive belonged to her as much as him.
Without the Little Submissive it just didn't seem right. She sat at his feet and felt empty. He told her to kiss his boot and she didn't want to do it. Indeed, she rather hoped he'd go away. She didn't feel submissive. She knelt with her head on his denim clad thigh and wondered if she'd ever feel that intensity ever again, if she'd be able to feel her dark side ever again.
Thursday 18 November 2010
Belt
He hadn't really hit her with anything other than his bare hand. Once, perhaps, with a pink fluffy duster that they were using as part of a game, but that didn't count. Not really.
She'd mentioned the belt once, and he'd talked about taking it with him next time he saw her, and laying it out on the bed for her to see. But that had got forgotten in amongst all their other adventures.
But she had wondered. She'd wondered if it would hurt more, or less, than his hand. She'd pondered whether the lack of physical touch would mean that she'd feel as though something was missing. She had even thought that perhaps, fond of her as he was, he might have gone off the idea entirely. After all, she imagined that everyone had a limit as to how much they'd really want to hurt someone. Was this his?
And she wasn't going to push. There was fear mixed with the excitement: real fear.
But he used it on her that night. It wasn't at all like his hand. The belt had a life of its own. She couldn't predict where it would strike, what part of her anatomy it might lash. It felt warm, hot even, but maybe that was just the heat from her own flesh.
And it stung. It stung so hard her eyes watered and she watched her knuckles turn white.
She was surprised at the reaction. It sent her deep, extremely deep. So deep that she couldn't sleep that night. She'd heard other subs use the phrase "beaten into submission" and always felt a little disapproving. Now, she thought she might have gotten a glimpse into what they meant.
It was something else she was learning about herself. About their dynamic when together. About how she felt more comfortable with the idea of him beating her, or standing tall over her as she cowered at his feet, than with the thought of him massaging her.
The next morning, when he'd left, she would examine her welts in the mirror. Looking at where he'd left his mark always made her swoon. In the early days that was the time when she would start sinking to the floor, overcome by a feeling she couldn't name or describe. Now, of course, she could identify that submissive feeling straight away.
For a moment she felt her forehead sink to the floor. It felt instinctive, like an animal that had just come up against a stronger, more alpha rival, and lost. But there was a satisfaction in that nevertheless.
Today, she remembered what he'd said as he dressed, that next time he would bring his wider belt. She shivered, but whether it was fear or excitement she wasn't sure.
She'd mentioned the belt once, and he'd talked about taking it with him next time he saw her, and laying it out on the bed for her to see. But that had got forgotten in amongst all their other adventures.
But she had wondered. She'd wondered if it would hurt more, or less, than his hand. She'd pondered whether the lack of physical touch would mean that she'd feel as though something was missing. She had even thought that perhaps, fond of her as he was, he might have gone off the idea entirely. After all, she imagined that everyone had a limit as to how much they'd really want to hurt someone. Was this his?
And she wasn't going to push. There was fear mixed with the excitement: real fear.
But he used it on her that night. It wasn't at all like his hand. The belt had a life of its own. She couldn't predict where it would strike, what part of her anatomy it might lash. It felt warm, hot even, but maybe that was just the heat from her own flesh.
And it stung. It stung so hard her eyes watered and she watched her knuckles turn white.
She was surprised at the reaction. It sent her deep, extremely deep. So deep that she couldn't sleep that night. She'd heard other subs use the phrase "beaten into submission" and always felt a little disapproving. Now, she thought she might have gotten a glimpse into what they meant.
It was something else she was learning about herself. About their dynamic when together. About how she felt more comfortable with the idea of him beating her, or standing tall over her as she cowered at his feet, than with the thought of him massaging her.
The next morning, when he'd left, she would examine her welts in the mirror. Looking at where he'd left his mark always made her swoon. In the early days that was the time when she would start sinking to the floor, overcome by a feeling she couldn't name or describe. Now, of course, she could identify that submissive feeling straight away.
For a moment she felt her forehead sink to the floor. It felt instinctive, like an animal that had just come up against a stronger, more alpha rival, and lost. But there was a satisfaction in that nevertheless.
Today, she remembered what he'd said as he dressed, that next time he would bring his wider belt. She shivered, but whether it was fear or excitement she wasn't sure.
Tuesday 9 November 2010
Sub Drop...or Excuse to Drop out?
She's never suffered from depression. She has a few friends who have and, quite frankly, she finds their wallowing in self pity irritating. She's always been of the opinion that you need to push yourself through it, or shut up about it. At least around her.
But now she wonders. She knows the score, how hours after their meetings she will freefall, droping into a zone where everything is still frustratingly the same as it ever was, and yet somehow different, as if you are looking at your own room in the mirror.
She wonders if these small slithers of feeling like this are what depression might really be like.
It takes a while, but she knows she'll come out of these moments. Hot mugs of Earl Grey, copious amounts of chocolate, a hot aromatic bath, a good bitchy gossip with her mates, her head down working with Hans Zimmers' The Last Samuri soundtrack playing in the background, and the joy of writing, will bring her out of her darkness.
There are occasions when she wonders if the highs are worth the lows. Of course these are always when she's feeling low, when she's looking in that mirror, where the lines and wrinkles of her own life are far too obvious.
A Dom friend once told her the way to get over the drop is not to fight it, but to accept it, live through it and wait for it to pass. And she does. And it does. It might take hours, but slowly she can feel her lips pull back into a grin again, can look back upon their night together and feel the fluttering softness in her chest as she recalls moments of pure bliss, can look away from the mirror and see what she really has and think she actually has it pretty damn good thank you very much.
She's lucky. She can bring herself through it. But part of her wonders what it would be like really be depressed, to be stuck in front of the mirror, unable to shake off its power. It's then she realises exactly how lucky she is.
But now she wonders. She knows the score, how hours after their meetings she will freefall, droping into a zone where everything is still frustratingly the same as it ever was, and yet somehow different, as if you are looking at your own room in the mirror.
She wonders if these small slithers of feeling like this are what depression might really be like.
It takes a while, but she knows she'll come out of these moments. Hot mugs of Earl Grey, copious amounts of chocolate, a hot aromatic bath, a good bitchy gossip with her mates, her head down working with Hans Zimmers' The Last Samuri soundtrack playing in the background, and the joy of writing, will bring her out of her darkness.
There are occasions when she wonders if the highs are worth the lows. Of course these are always when she's feeling low, when she's looking in that mirror, where the lines and wrinkles of her own life are far too obvious.
A Dom friend once told her the way to get over the drop is not to fight it, but to accept it, live through it and wait for it to pass. And she does. And it does. It might take hours, but slowly she can feel her lips pull back into a grin again, can look back upon their night together and feel the fluttering softness in her chest as she recalls moments of pure bliss, can look away from the mirror and see what she really has and think she actually has it pretty damn good thank you very much.
She's lucky. She can bring herself through it. But part of her wonders what it would be like really be depressed, to be stuck in front of the mirror, unable to shake off its power. It's then she realises exactly how lucky she is.
Monday 8 November 2010
The Sleeping Submissive
She spends the night as his submissive. He had talked about how she could sleep for a while in her collar, but in the end she doesn't need it. She finds that she can't throw off hours of submission by closing her eyes and pulling up the covers. She can't even dream her way out of it.
It isn't as enjoyable as she imagined. Feeling submissive to someone who is asleep is a bit boring. She feels like huffing and puffing to wake him up. Why should he sleep, and not her? It's not fair. She can't get comfortable. She needs water. And then more water. She's restless. Her cunt is throbbing so badly for him it won't let her relax. One minute she throws off the covers, exasperated at how hot she feels, the next she pulls them up again to ward off of the shivers that suddenly attack.
She hears moaning and whimpering but it takes a while before she realises it's her that doing it.
She laughs at the recent memory of thinking she had never felt so sexually awake as she does at this time in her life. Ironically, feeling sexually awake is the last thing she wants right this moment.
It's time. She's exhausted. She is longing for a peaceful sleep in his arms, but she's starting to get a feeling that what they have is quite the opposite of peaceful.
She wants to be near him, but being next to him makes her feel even more horny, even more restless, so she tries moving away, shoving her head into the chilly freshness of the underside of the pillow. But the pillow cannot dampen out the effects of the adrenaline that's coursing through her body, and she gets even more angry.
She's craving to be able to sleep close to him, her head on his shoulder, listening to his heart, but she can't keep still. The thunder in her ears and in her pussy outranks any heartbeat. Even when she tries to bring herself to orgasm with her own fingers it feels unreal; it is Him that she wants.
Finally, she climaxes and muffling her cries with the duvet, collapses back, closing her eyes and wishing for sleep. At this point, it's about the only thing she can wish for.
It isn't as enjoyable as she imagined. Feeling submissive to someone who is asleep is a bit boring. She feels like huffing and puffing to wake him up. Why should he sleep, and not her? It's not fair. She can't get comfortable. She needs water. And then more water. She's restless. Her cunt is throbbing so badly for him it won't let her relax. One minute she throws off the covers, exasperated at how hot she feels, the next she pulls them up again to ward off of the shivers that suddenly attack.
She hears moaning and whimpering but it takes a while before she realises it's her that doing it.
She laughs at the recent memory of thinking she had never felt so sexually awake as she does at this time in her life. Ironically, feeling sexually awake is the last thing she wants right this moment.
It's time. She's exhausted. She is longing for a peaceful sleep in his arms, but she's starting to get a feeling that what they have is quite the opposite of peaceful.
She wants to be near him, but being next to him makes her feel even more horny, even more restless, so she tries moving away, shoving her head into the chilly freshness of the underside of the pillow. But the pillow cannot dampen out the effects of the adrenaline that's coursing through her body, and she gets even more angry.
She's craving to be able to sleep close to him, her head on his shoulder, listening to his heart, but she can't keep still. The thunder in her ears and in her pussy outranks any heartbeat. Even when she tries to bring herself to orgasm with her own fingers it feels unreal; it is Him that she wants.
Finally, she climaxes and muffling her cries with the duvet, collapses back, closing her eyes and wishing for sleep. At this point, it's about the only thing she can wish for.
Monday 1 November 2010
Role Play or Split Personalities?
"This is different. It isn't just role play," he says.
She knows what he means. She's done some role play before...once in her past she played a giggly schoolgirl that felt all too unreal (anyone would have ran a mile if they'd actually met her as a teenager...angry, petulant, and extremely arrogant); for him, she had even played a French maid with a silly accent and a case of nerves.
She pauses for a moment and ponders. Yes, there are many roles that she plays...submissive, pet, pony, lover, friend, confidante, scared little girl..and one or two she doesn't care to fully acknowledge to herself yet.
But he's right, she doesn't quite play them. Indeed, she takes them all seriously. Play doesn't come into it. If pushed, she might even say that the roles play her, that she's their pawn and has to let them come out and have their moment when they desire it.
She can't put them on, like a costume or mask. They have to be conjured out of her, and she can't even do that herself. It is He that has the power to bring them to life.
And they all have very different but endearing qualities for her. She has a growing fondness for Pet, so strongly does she feel the almost overwhelming devotion to, and adoration for, her owner when those instinctive feelings take over and she nuzzles against his chest. As Pony she enjoys the primitive desire to be taken by her stud, almost all human qualities momentarily absent.
She adores being Lover, orgasming to his touch, his whisper, his look, feeling him inside her, making her cry with gratitude. Being his Confidante is trickier as she's still not sure what she does and doesn't want to know. The more she knows him, the more both her body and mind ache for him, and that's sometimes hard to deal with.
He knows how to bring out the Scared Little Girl too...the one that curls up foetal position, or tries to crawl under the bed. She wonders why she likes this one so much...is it akin to her love of being scared through horror films and stories...or does she just enjoy the feeling of regression? She's not sure.
In the past he has also brought out the darker side of her too...hateful seething Witch-like feelings of hurt and jealousy that make her want to brutally wound with words that pierce through the flesh and into the heart. She hasn't seen the Witch-like one for a while, but occasionally a stab of insecurity will surface, as if Witchy one is just underneath, prodding her with a jagged fingernail to remind her she's still very much alive.
But most of all, she thrills at being his submissive. The thought of being at his feet can send her woozy; the idea of laying her face on his foot clad boot takes her places she's never been before. The memory of being on her knees, shaking with anticipation as she hears him unzip his trousers sparks a jolt of desire so powerful she literally has to force herself to breathe normally. Being his submissive feels like the role she has been waiting for her whole life.
She knows what he means. She's done some role play before...once in her past she played a giggly schoolgirl that felt all too unreal (anyone would have ran a mile if they'd actually met her as a teenager...angry, petulant, and extremely arrogant); for him, she had even played a French maid with a silly accent and a case of nerves.
She pauses for a moment and ponders. Yes, there are many roles that she plays...submissive, pet, pony, lover, friend, confidante, scared little girl..and one or two she doesn't care to fully acknowledge to herself yet.
But he's right, she doesn't quite play them. Indeed, she takes them all seriously. Play doesn't come into it. If pushed, she might even say that the roles play her, that she's their pawn and has to let them come out and have their moment when they desire it.
She can't put them on, like a costume or mask. They have to be conjured out of her, and she can't even do that herself. It is He that has the power to bring them to life.
And they all have very different but endearing qualities for her. She has a growing fondness for Pet, so strongly does she feel the almost overwhelming devotion to, and adoration for, her owner when those instinctive feelings take over and she nuzzles against his chest. As Pony she enjoys the primitive desire to be taken by her stud, almost all human qualities momentarily absent.
She adores being Lover, orgasming to his touch, his whisper, his look, feeling him inside her, making her cry with gratitude. Being his Confidante is trickier as she's still not sure what she does and doesn't want to know. The more she knows him, the more both her body and mind ache for him, and that's sometimes hard to deal with.
He knows how to bring out the Scared Little Girl too...the one that curls up foetal position, or tries to crawl under the bed. She wonders why she likes this one so much...is it akin to her love of being scared through horror films and stories...or does she just enjoy the feeling of regression? She's not sure.
In the past he has also brought out the darker side of her too...hateful seething Witch-like feelings of hurt and jealousy that make her want to brutally wound with words that pierce through the flesh and into the heart. She hasn't seen the Witch-like one for a while, but occasionally a stab of insecurity will surface, as if Witchy one is just underneath, prodding her with a jagged fingernail to remind her she's still very much alive.
But most of all, she thrills at being his submissive. The thought of being at his feet can send her woozy; the idea of laying her face on his foot clad boot takes her places she's never been before. The memory of being on her knees, shaking with anticipation as she hears him unzip his trousers sparks a jolt of desire so powerful she literally has to force herself to breathe normally. Being his submissive feels like the role she has been waiting for her whole life.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
