Masturbation Monday: Mating Megan 2

The previous episode is here.

I put my hand in her hair and Megan made a low, harsh sound of appreciation, so I tangled more hair in my fingers and pulled, hard. I moved a little faster, and stepped up the pace of her strapping. Megan tried to say something, but my cock obstructed her.

I paused. “What was that?” 

“Harggr.” 

Oh. I knew what she’d said, but I said, “You’ll have to be clearer than that.”  I swung the belt down again, hard, across her back and buttocks. She jerked forward.

There was a brief wet second in which she had almost all of my cock. Then she had to draw back again.

Megan said, with what should have been extreme clarity, “Har-weh. Deh! Deh.” There was urgency in that voice. I was charmed by her enunciation, given that I blocked her tongue and mouth. I decided I should get a gag for her, so long as it was only partly effective.

“Oh, do you mean, ‘harder’?”   

“Ess. Ess ease. Puh. Puh ease.”

“Good girl.” I strapped her harder, six times, while her cries rose in pitch and she sounded very close to coming. I withdrew entirely from her mouth and walked round the table. I touched the soft skin just below her left buttock.

Megan trembled, but the tension was not fear. I asked, as if I was offering a glass of milk, “Megan, would you like to be fucked now?”

I put on a condom, and then grasped her hips tight, fingers pressing as hard as I could. She said, in sexual rage, “Yes! Yes please.” 

“That’s right.” I stood behind her, between her feet, and leaned forward, cock disappearing into her. Megan was wet, and her bottom warm from the belt.

E-fucking-lust!

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Welcome to Elust 108

The only place where the smartest and hottest sex bloggers are featured under one roof every month. Whether you’re looking for sex journalism, erotic writing, relationship advice or kinky discussions it’ll be here at Elust. Want to be included in Elust #109? Start with the rules, come back August 1st to submit something and subscribe to the RSS feed for updates!

 

~ This Month’s Top Three Posts ~

Feeling Compersion

Invisibility

To baldly go

 

~ Featured Post (Molly’s Picks) ~

Cut Throat
The City I Love To Hate

~Readers Choice from Sexbytes ~

Legend Told

Thoughts & Advice on Sex & Relationships

Reader Q&A: Dating Advice ~ Autism Spectrum
Consent to proceed…
I fall in love everyday (kinda)
I don’t feel safe

Erotic Fiction

The Key to Room 237 – Calypso
fleur friday no 1 – release
The Forbidden Beach
Natalie in the Cold
Power and Addiction
The Curse, Part One – Black Spots
Legend Told
The Adventures of Stephanie’s Ass
Dear Mortimer

Erotic Non-Fiction

When I get down on my knees it is not to pray
The Importance of a Blowjob
Last night he made me dinner
Recreate
Recall, Recollect, Recreate

Thoughts & Advice on Kink & Fetish

Oral: Fetish, pleasure, something else?

Poetry

-07.07.18_18:05-

Wicked Wednesday: Janie’s drop #5

The previous episode is here.

Monica had said that Janie was better, when she was afraid. There was a pause. Then Janie said, “Yes, Mistress.”

“So. Here’s why you shouldn’t come, little Janie, unless I tell you to. Have you ever spent a night hanging from the ceiling by your ankle cuffs, getting a whipping every hour, on the hour?”

Janie thought about what that might be like. She had no doubt that Monica would do it. “No, Mistress, never.” Her voice was awed.

“I’m half tempted to give you the experience, then. You’d never disobey me or your Master again. Would you?”

Janie shook her head, eyes wide. “No, Mistress!”

“But if you come, Janie, that is what will happen to you. So control yourself, little slut.”

“Yes, Mistress.”

Monica fucked her for perhaps an hour, sometimes excruciatingly slow, while the little vibrator worked inside her, sometimes fast, pounding Janie’s bottom with her belly and thighs, the artificial cock bigger and longer than Paul’s. Janie had to fight the urge to release, sometimes gritting her teeth and crying with the fight to keep her orgasm at bay. 

At last she begged, nearly exhausted, “Please. Please, Mistress.” 

Monica withdrew. She rolled from the bed onto the floor. “You do not beg! Stay in place, Janie. Bottom arched up, just a little more.”

“Yes, Mistress.” Janie did her best to comply. The first stroke of the riding crop landed across her thighs, about two inches below the crease of her buttocks. It felt like pleasure, like the missing, vibrating cylinder. Janie huffed air through her nose. The next stroke landed an inch higher. Janie fought for control while Monica whipped her. She never been in danger of coming from the ministrations of the riding crop before.

Janie lost count of the strokes. Monica was panting lightly when she’d finished with her. Her body burned while Mistress warned her again about what would happen if she came, and allowed her, at last, into bed. Monica’s bed. It was after midnight, and Janie was exhausted.  

Before she slept she reflected that there was nothing terrible about how Monica tasted, or anything bad about the feel of her wet pussy in her face. It was ok. But it hadn’t done anything for her, sexually. So why was she so wet? Why did she need, so hard and so desperately, to come?

Masturbation Monday: Mating Megan

Note

I don’t have time to write another instalment of the Maires, Stephanie and me story. I’m writing a non-erotic novel, and dealing with crazed bureaucrats. So here’s an excerpt from a book I’m trying to sell. 

Mating Magan

Megan, who’d written to me, was pretty, clever and real. So I contacted her back. She insisted on a picture of me with my shirt off. I starved myself for a couple of days, which made no difference, and managed my own phone camera and bathroom mirror picture. It took nearly forty pictures to get one in which I wasn’t too obviously sucking my stomach in. But it passed.

She called me and made a speech she’d probably made before: she didn’t want a relationship; she wanted hard bdsm sex. In her bedroom, she wanted a man to take what he wanted from her and do what he wanted to her. But I wasn’t to think that I had rights over her when I wasn’t in her bedroom. Okay?

I said all that was fine with me. “By the way, you don’t like Dobermans, do you? I mean, romantically?”

“Dobermans?” I’d made her laugh. “You’ve been on this site, and now you ask all your girls if they’re into dobermans? Like that’s something you have to be wary of? You’ve had a time!”

“I could a tale unfold…”

She, fortunately, didn’t want to hear it. “Anyway I hate dogs. Do you want to, um, stick pins in me?” I said something crass about things I did want to stick in her, but not pins, and so she agreed to meet me in what was becoming my favorite bar.

Megan looked as good as her photos, and I looked no worse than mine. I knew I wanted her once she’d walked through the door. She took longer to decide about me, I think, because she was much prettier than me. But I clinched my case when she knocked our table, spilling wine, and I promised to leather the front of her thighs for that.

If I’d said “thighs”, or “the back of your thighs”, I might not have won her. But “the front of your thighs” showed ambition and attention to detail. She considered that, and said we had a date.

The date was for Friday night, at her apartment. Some time that night Megan was tied to a table, face down, with her knees spread and drawn up like a frog’s. I’d roped her knees to the tops of the table legs. Her thighs blushed front and back, since I’d over-delivered on my promise.

We were in a classic dominant-submissive configuration, Megan naked, bound and bent, and I standing clothed before her, my cock in her mouth. She suckled, slowly nodding, while I drew back and pushed forward, unhurried, as if absent-mindedly.   

About twice a minute, I would swing my belt down her back so the end cracked and curled around her bottom and the insides of her thighs. Megan rewarded each stroke by taking my cock deeper for a second or two. She’d said it was safe to strap her hard because she never bit when she was strapped. Her mouth always opened, in response to pain.

I was impressed: it’s not something that most people know about themselves. She was more experienced and skilled than me. She was a technician of pleasure. She was also quite wise and cheerfully sensible, and though we were nearly strangers I liked her.

We’d never be lovers. But we gave each other truth. Accepting Megans measured submission let me expand to fill more of myself. It was like re-opening the disused wing of a house. 

The next episode is here.

Sinful Sunday: That colour (and that ass)

 

Discipline is an energy transfer. Giving a spanking takes power and force. Receiving a spanking takes control and endurance, and alchemy: transferring pain into pleasure.

(Even when some dom insists it’s a punishment and it’s not supposed to feel good. There’s a kind of internal dissent that neither a submissive nor a dom can suppress: pleasure will out.)

But when the spanking’s done, and her ass glows, radiating red heat, she lights her dom’s heart. And she lights the room.

WHO drops BDSM, fetishism, transvestism off the “sick” list! Part 4

I just want to explain why perverts should be carrying me round in a sedan chair for the rest of my life. 

The sedan chair life. I’d prefer my porters to be less male and less dressed, but the technology is right.

The first Australian Survey on Sexual Health and Attitudes (ASHR) findings were reported in 2003.

At that point I became part of the story. I was struck by the presence of a question about bdsm in a national survey, and by the utter beauty of the huge, randomly selected sample that the Australian researchers had reached. I love data!

However, I learned that the ASHR team had made no analysis of how the responses of people who had participated in bdsm in the last year differed from those who hadn’t.

So I contacted them. I explained that I was fascinated that they had a data set that could for the first time test the claim that bdsm is pathological, using a large-scale sample of the population in general. I met with the Australian team, Anthony Smith, Chris Rissel, Juliet Richters, Andrew Grulich, and Richard de Visser, who were a little amused by my very specific enthusiasm for their bdsm data.

Anyway, I suggested further data analysis to compare the responses of their bdsm and non-bdsm respondents, focusing on indications of mental and social health like the response to questions about education, career and income, whether people were in a relationship, how they reported their sexual happiness, and their self-assessment of their own physical and mental health. The data could also reveal whether bdsm people were more or less likely than non-bdsm people to have been forced into sexual activity when they were children, or as adults.

The team thought this analysis would probably turn up something that they could publish in a scientific journal, even if they weren’t as interested in bdsm as I was. None of us expected that the findings would make anything like the media impact that resulted. 

This is from The Age, in Victoria, Australia. But we were in The Times, the NY Times, the LA Times, probably every major newspaper in the world

The key finding was that bdsm people showed no sign of being socially or personally dysfunctional, and every sign of being well-adjusted and happy. This made TV news and newspaper headlines across Europe, the Americas, Asia, the Mid-East, Australasia, Africa and so on. Much of the coverage was written in newspaper-ese, with headlines like: “Smack happy”, “You can’t beat bdsm”, “Bound to be happy”, and so on.

There was a lot of that sort of thing. Our news cheered many people who enjoy bdsm, but we made the world’s sub-editors absolutely ecstatic.

From my point of view the results contained their share of disappointments. For example, since bdsm relies on verbal and symbolic communication for much of its power, I’d expected that people attracted to bdsm would be more educated than average. However, there turned out to be no significant differences between bdsm participants and others, in terms of educational attainment.

So my self-flattering expectations were as wrong as those of the people who expected to find us haunting the mental hospitals and the jails.

Thomas’s pina colada milkshake is better than yours. Splooshie!

That’s the beauty of evidence. It’s a piece of piss to make up theories that “justify” bigotry. But evidence is a hard-shelled beast. Watching beautiful theories encountering evidence can be as messy as watching a wagon loaded with pina colada hitting an armadillo.

 

Wicked Wednesday: Janie’s Drop 4

The previous episode is here.

3

Janie spent Friday night, after her punishment, being taught to pleasure a woman. Monica kept the terrible leather paddle in her hand while Janie served her, and Janie felt it often.

There were so many things in cunnilingus that she could do wrong, she discovered. She had to discover, focus on and follow the rhythms of Monica’s desire, serving her, pleasuring her, responsive to her every change in timing or intensity.

When she was mistaken Monica used the paddle on her bottom, harshly and frequently.

She never showed Monica any lack of enthusiasm. That terrible session when she bent over the trestle while Monica paddled her: that was enough to make her forget any scruple, any distaste, any lack of pleasure in applying her tongue, her lips and nose to Monica’s cunt. Paul had sometimes punished her more painfully, but never so coldly. She was terrified of being so ruthlessly and painfully thrashed again.

In the meantime Monica lounged under her, sometimes holding Janie’s hair and pushing her head down, sometimes squeezing her face between her strong thighs. Sometimes Monica gasped with pleasure, and there was a respite from that agonising paddle.

But only for a few seconds, and never with a word of praise. 

Janie served her Mistress’s pleasure, every muscle in her body, and all of her concentration, directed at pleasing her Mistress and avoiding punishment. She would do nothing that incited Monica to punish her.  

At last Monica announced she was satisfied. (She’d come four times, Janie thought rebelliously: she bloody well ought to be satisfied. Then she turned white with terror, just for having that thought. Somehow, she feared that Mistress might know.)

Monica ordered her onto her bed, on her hands and knees, thighs widely spread, bottom arched up. Her Mistress put a blindfold round her eyes. She was aware of rustling sounds and then a click behind her.

And then a presence, cocklike, pressing at her cunt, and pushing forward. Monica was riding her, fucking her, with a strap-on. At first she wondered what could be in it for her Mistress, since she could receive no sensation from a silicon cylinder. 

But then there was a tiny sound, and the cylinder inside her began to buzz, slowly at first and then insistently. The cylinder began to drive into her, and nearly out again, and in. Her Mistress was fucking her, her hips swinging, the device in her cunt driving Janie higher and higher. Janie made a joyous sound: so much pleasure she wanted to sing.

Then there was a flash of pain: a riding crop striking hard on her left flank, then again on her right. 

“No, Janie, you haven’t earned an orgasm. I could feel you getting near, little slut. But you’re to control yourself. You’re here to serve, not to get off, little slavegirl. You may not come, is that clear?”

Her cunt clasped that strap-on. It still pushed her, relentlessly, to pleasure and release. Please, she wanted to say: oh, please, I want it so much. Please let me come. Please. But she said, “Yes, Mistress.”

“You have a lot to learn, Janie. Still, a little fear seems to improve you. At least you’re likely to be trying.”

The next episode is here.

Masturbation Monday: Stephanie the Sir-sayer

“Stephanie, my sweetlove, put your knees under Maires’s shoulders. And get your cunt nice and comfortable.”

Stephanie considered. She said, for the first time, “Yes, sir.” She was just trying it out, to see how it felt to say it. But hearing from her it was powerful magic.

Sincere or not, I felt it right through my body. I took her hand and put it on my cock. She squeezed. “Oh! It’s not quite dead!”

“Say, ‘sir’ again.”

Stephanie looked at me, eyes unnaturally wide, then dropped her gaze submissively. She breathed, “Oh, yes, sir.”

I knew she was taking the piss, but that didn’t seem to matter. She tightened her grip on my cock, which answered her. “Oh my god, it’s not dead at all. It’s just like ET! Sir.”

I grinned. I said, “You can play all the games you like. But the truth is, you already half mean it, Stephanie.” She looked away for a second.

“You might be right. Sir.” 

I tried so hard not to look smug. Really I did. “Now, I gave you an order. It’s an order that gets your cunt licked. So…”

“Yes! Sir!”

And she scrambled, straddling Maires, and lowered her body slowly until a little gasp told me she’d made contact with Maires’s tongue. I imagined Maires smiling, buried as she was in beautiful woman, tongue working hard to please her new sister.

Stephanie trembled slightly as Maires licked up at her cunt. This was completely new, for her, and wonderful.

Her ass was sweetly poised, in one of the classic spank-me positions. It trembled a little, too. 

That ass seemed so intensely inviting to me, even if Stephanie had probably forgotten, for the moment, that I existed.

But there was her gorgeous arse, jiggling up and down in response to Maire’s tongue. There were no games, now: I was simply hard.

Yes, I decided, this was a very good time to introduce something else new. New for Stephanie, at least. I rolled off the bed onto the floor, and took the belt from my jeans.