He has collared her: thrown away her play collar and replaced it with one that is thicker, wider, one that binds her throat as tightly as his bare hand. A collar that awakens the senses as intensely as he has awakened her.
They have uncovered her submission. She pours it into him, for him, and yet in her very submission she has found herself. She has found her unsubmission.
He has lied to her, hurt her, fed her dark untruths that made her doubt her very instincts. He has laid a delicate trap that in the end only caught them both. A trap that was impossible to refuse, and yet that very trap has given her the power to break free from another.
She hands him her submission, her dignity, her lust, her time, her love and her damp knickers. She hands it all over for him to take what he desires, when he chooses. She kneels for him, lies at his feet and tells him he can do anything he desires with her. There are moments when she feels she might do anything for him.
They feed each other beautiful expresso shots of distraction. In a coffee shop, they drink cappuccino and he has a smudge of chocolate on his lip. Her cunt aches as she longs to lick it away. On a park bench, they talk, her head nestled against his warm shoulder, her eyes fixed on a slither of bare chest she can see through the gap between his shirt buttons.
She recognises this isn't real life for either of them. And yet their time together is in such disconcerting, such dramatic technicolour that she can hardly believe it all comes wrapped up in one leather collar.
Wednesday, 4 August 2010
A Tale of Two Cities
We travelled to Paris
the birth place of romance
where I was punished
mercilessly
The city that tantalises the senses
where I was gagged and blindfolded
bound to the bed
and driven senseless
The home of gastronomy
where I dined on his spunk
that he fed my throat
repeatedly
The place where de Beauvoir, Degas and Satre
worshipped art, literature and logic
And I sat at his feet
and worshipped him.
the birth place of romance
where I was punished
mercilessly
The city that tantalises the senses
where I was gagged and blindfolded
bound to the bed
and driven senseless
The home of gastronomy
where I dined on his spunk
that he fed my throat
repeatedly
The place where de Beauvoir, Degas and Satre
worshipped art, literature and logic
And I sat at his feet
and worshipped him.
Lies
They collect around the arteries
cholesterol of the soul
slowly building into
Fatty deposits,
seemingly dormant
and yet full of danger.
First, they block the blood-flow of communication.
they hide as something else
pretending not to hear
failing to understand
needing to talk about something else
Urgently.
Eventually they make their way closer to the heart...
Danger-Zone.
After that
it's only a matter of time.
cholesterol of the soul
slowly building into
Fatty deposits,
seemingly dormant
and yet full of danger.
First, they block the blood-flow of communication.
they hide as something else
pretending not to hear
failing to understand
needing to talk about something else
Urgently.
Eventually they make their way closer to the heart...
Danger-Zone.
After that
it's only a matter of time.
Wednesday, 28 July 2010
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.
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.
Tuesday, 20 July 2010
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.
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.
Tuesday, 13 July 2010
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.
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.
Sunday, 11 July 2010
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.
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.
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