Sunday, 30 January 2011
Hannibal / Clarice: Perfect Enemy
The ultimate sexiest Dom...and he speaks Italian so beautifully too!
Fuck the Flowers
"Sometimes I feel like bringing you flowers," he says.
She ponders this for a moment. The words seem so alien, she's not sure if she heard him right.
Flowers. Yeah. Right. Doesn't he understand how hard she tries to harden her heart against this sort of stuff? How hard she tries to keep that door shut, because opening it would bring out more than she could cope with. How often she has to tell herself to pull back because, however much she feels as though she belongs to him; she knows that he doesn't belong to her. How so aware she is that there is one piece of the jigsaw missing.
She doesn't want flowers from him. What she craves are kisses. And not the hide behind a corner or duck behind a pillar type of kisses, but the earth stopping stand in the middle of the street kisses where they stand still and the world spirals around them. She wants to be pushed up against the barrier on Tower Bridge, his tongue thrust hungrily down her throat, whilst the tourists throng by. She wants him to grab her in the middle of Oxford Street and snog her greedily, making all the shoppers tut angrily as they have to side step them. She wants him to bring her to her knees with his lips in front of the world.
Fuck the flowers. She wants kisses.
She ponders this for a moment. The words seem so alien, she's not sure if she heard him right.
Flowers. Yeah. Right. Doesn't he understand how hard she tries to harden her heart against this sort of stuff? How hard she tries to keep that door shut, because opening it would bring out more than she could cope with. How often she has to tell herself to pull back because, however much she feels as though she belongs to him; she knows that he doesn't belong to her. How so aware she is that there is one piece of the jigsaw missing.
She doesn't want flowers from him. What she craves are kisses. And not the hide behind a corner or duck behind a pillar type of kisses, but the earth stopping stand in the middle of the street kisses where they stand still and the world spirals around them. She wants to be pushed up against the barrier on Tower Bridge, his tongue thrust hungrily down her throat, whilst the tourists throng by. She wants him to grab her in the middle of Oxford Street and snog her greedily, making all the shoppers tut angrily as they have to side step them. She wants him to bring her to her knees with his lips in front of the world.
Fuck the flowers. She wants kisses.
Saturday, 29 January 2011
An Interrogation Roleplay: Anticipation
He's promised her an interrogation. Again. Well, every time they've come close to it in the past something seems to happen. She wonders what fate has been trying to tell her and hopes that this time it's gonna happen.
She's excited. Aroused, yes, but just as excited at the thought of intellectually wrestling with him. She's wondering if she'll be able to hold out. She's wondering what they'll both learn about each other from the experience. She's wondering if it's going to be fun.
She's wondering if it's going to hurt.
She's excited. Aroused, yes, but just as excited at the thought of intellectually wrestling with him. She's wondering if she'll be able to hold out. She's wondering what they'll both learn about each other from the experience. She's wondering if it's going to be fun.
She's wondering if it's going to hurt.
Wednesday, 19 January 2011
Yum Yum: An Evening of Cannibalism and Objectification
The bath is too hot but she's determined to endure it. She needs the heat to ease out the soreness from yesterday. She looks down at her leg: inky teethmarks clearly visible through the silky white froth of bubbles.
A shiver thrills through her as she remembers his teeth baring down on her flesh, a hairbreadth away from ripping it: from mauling her.
He told her that she consumes his thoughts, and yet, she smiles, it's ironic that it is he who is on the edge of consuming her. Literally.
But he doesn't just consume her with his teeth barred, his hot breath curling around her limbs. Every time they meet he devours her subtly, nibbling away at her layers like a colourful fish in the posh pedicures so trendy nowadays.
But there are moments when his teeth catch on her heart and invisible rivulets of blood betray her vulnerability. It's at times like these he calls her feisty. He says he sometimes finds it hard to control himself. She wonders if he knows how hard it is for her to control herself too: moments when she not only wants to throw the crop across the room at him, but to stride over, nostrils flaring with indignation, and smack it hard across his face, so hard that he too will feel the sharp lash of pain he caused her.
She lifts up her leg and follows the line of bite marks to her inner thigh where she can see the yellowing imprint of his mouth. Seeing him there, on her, triggers off a wave of submission so strong she feels herself woozily slipping lower and lower in the bath. She has started to reveal her softest parts to him. And yet there are still softer, more vulnerable parts he has yet to find. She is protecting them still, although she has a feeling he'll find his way in.
She runs her finger across her cunt. She's supposed to shave herself smooth for him but every now and again she disobeys...small kicks for a girl who asked her Dom to use her as a footstool the previous evening, and knelt before him as he rested his feet on her back, whispering to her to keep still as she was almost knocked flat by the intensity of the orgasm ripping through her. But, she shrugs as she puts the razor away unused, a girl's gotta rebel somehow.
A shiver thrills through her as she remembers his teeth baring down on her flesh, a hairbreadth away from ripping it: from mauling her.
He told her that she consumes his thoughts, and yet, she smiles, it's ironic that it is he who is on the edge of consuming her. Literally.
But he doesn't just consume her with his teeth barred, his hot breath curling around her limbs. Every time they meet he devours her subtly, nibbling away at her layers like a colourful fish in the posh pedicures so trendy nowadays.
But there are moments when his teeth catch on her heart and invisible rivulets of blood betray her vulnerability. It's at times like these he calls her feisty. He says he sometimes finds it hard to control himself. She wonders if he knows how hard it is for her to control herself too: moments when she not only wants to throw the crop across the room at him, but to stride over, nostrils flaring with indignation, and smack it hard across his face, so hard that he too will feel the sharp lash of pain he caused her.
She lifts up her leg and follows the line of bite marks to her inner thigh where she can see the yellowing imprint of his mouth. Seeing him there, on her, triggers off a wave of submission so strong she feels herself woozily slipping lower and lower in the bath. She has started to reveal her softest parts to him. And yet there are still softer, more vulnerable parts he has yet to find. She is protecting them still, although she has a feeling he'll find his way in.
She runs her finger across her cunt. She's supposed to shave herself smooth for him but every now and again she disobeys...small kicks for a girl who asked her Dom to use her as a footstool the previous evening, and knelt before him as he rested his feet on her back, whispering to her to keep still as she was almost knocked flat by the intensity of the orgasm ripping through her. But, she shrugs as she puts the razor away unused, a girl's gotta rebel somehow.
Wednesday, 12 January 2011
Supernova
“Take your bracelet off and hold out your hand.”
She complies, turning her arms so that her veins are skywards. She convinces herself she can almost feel her blood pulsing. He slips the lead around her wrist, and fastens it tight. It’s not as cold as she remembered, but the texture of the metal is a definite contrast to the warm fuzziness she is currently feeling.
They walk. He asks where they are but she can’t reply, even though she knows. They are in cosmetic surgeon territory, she could probably name a few Dr clients she knows if she was compos mentis. If her owner wasn’t leading her around the streets of London by a chain.
She listens for the chink of the links, but the distance murmur of traffic and their footsteps on the slightly wet pavement mask any noise they might be making. It’s a pity. She relishes the noises of her submission...the harsh smack as his hand hits her arse, the hiss of his belt, the cigar depth of his voice...the sound of her lead being slowly unfurled.
Occasionally she feels her knees start to give way and she finds herself leaning against him. He is her only prop, the only thing that is stopping her from crumbling to her knees right there in the middle of the road. There are moments, she thinks wistfully, when he is her only prop, period.
She’s vaguely aware of people around them, only because she feels the pull on the lead as he slows them both down so that strangers can go past. She’s hardly aware of whether they are an old man or a middle aged woman. Everyone else has become a shadow, peripheral to what’s going on. She has to rely on him to be aware of them. He moonlights as her senses, for all hers are busy, tuning into him.
Her pulls her to an abrupt halt and they kiss in the middle of the street, his hand reaching beneath her dress and pulling her knickers roughly to one side. She’s vaguely aware that this is a public place, but she doesn’t care. He could do anything with her, even chain her to the railings as he’s threatening, and she would comply. She would submit. She doesn’t have a choice anymore. For this moment in time, she has chosen to give that up.
Who needs choice when there’s nothing else? At times like this she feels that the universe is collapsing, folding in on itself. And all that’s left is the connection between the two of them. It might be his breath on her face as he moves inside her, or his sonorous voice taking her to places she’s never been before, or the pull of her lead as he takes control of her. Whatever it is at that moment, it burns fiercely, dangerously, perhaps even threatening to implode.
She doesn’t know much about astronomy, but something she does know is that despite all the mathematical theory, analysis and guesswork, no one, for sure, knows what lies on the other side of a black hole.
She complies, turning her arms so that her veins are skywards. She convinces herself she can almost feel her blood pulsing. He slips the lead around her wrist, and fastens it tight. It’s not as cold as she remembered, but the texture of the metal is a definite contrast to the warm fuzziness she is currently feeling.
They walk. He asks where they are but she can’t reply, even though she knows. They are in cosmetic surgeon territory, she could probably name a few Dr clients she knows if she was compos mentis. If her owner wasn’t leading her around the streets of London by a chain.
She listens for the chink of the links, but the distance murmur of traffic and their footsteps on the slightly wet pavement mask any noise they might be making. It’s a pity. She relishes the noises of her submission...the harsh smack as his hand hits her arse, the hiss of his belt, the cigar depth of his voice...the sound of her lead being slowly unfurled.
Occasionally she feels her knees start to give way and she finds herself leaning against him. He is her only prop, the only thing that is stopping her from crumbling to her knees right there in the middle of the road. There are moments, she thinks wistfully, when he is her only prop, period.
She’s vaguely aware of people around them, only because she feels the pull on the lead as he slows them both down so that strangers can go past. She’s hardly aware of whether they are an old man or a middle aged woman. Everyone else has become a shadow, peripheral to what’s going on. She has to rely on him to be aware of them. He moonlights as her senses, for all hers are busy, tuning into him.
Her pulls her to an abrupt halt and they kiss in the middle of the street, his hand reaching beneath her dress and pulling her knickers roughly to one side. She’s vaguely aware that this is a public place, but she doesn’t care. He could do anything with her, even chain her to the railings as he’s threatening, and she would comply. She would submit. She doesn’t have a choice anymore. For this moment in time, she has chosen to give that up.
Who needs choice when there’s nothing else? At times like this she feels that the universe is collapsing, folding in on itself. And all that’s left is the connection between the two of them. It might be his breath on her face as he moves inside her, or his sonorous voice taking her to places she’s never been before, or the pull of her lead as he takes control of her. Whatever it is at that moment, it burns fiercely, dangerously, perhaps even threatening to implode.
She doesn’t know much about astronomy, but something she does know is that despite all the mathematical theory, analysis and guesswork, no one, for sure, knows what lies on the other side of a black hole.
Monday, 29 November 2010
RIP - Part Two
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.
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.
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.
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