Humiliation of an ex-Nazi submissive 74: The gates of horn

The bed seemed huge. It had to extend across at least an acre. Raylene was there, and so was Bellie, one on each side of me, dressed in sex-life-in-ancient-Rome tunics that left them more than Hollywood naked. They were striking dancers’ poses, as if they were in a Victorian painting. Bellie’s ass was as red as Raylene’s, which was odd. I didn’t remember taking the razor strop to her. 

There was something happening between the two of them, far away at the foot of the bed. The sheets churned and Lynette emerged, slowly crawling towards my feet. She was crawling like a snake, not an infant, so that her belly touched the bottom sheet and I couldn’t see her breasts as well as I’d have liked. She was a more slender girl, and I watched the gap between her breasts and the working of her shoulders and upper arms as she approached. Her expression was serious, as if she had an important message for me.

True dreams come through the Gates of Horn

True dreams are supposed to come through the Gates of Horn, but you should never trust mythology

Bellie lowered her head, still dancer-like, and kissed my cock. The kiss was one of those magic ones you read about in fairy stories: it woke my cock from its sleep. It started to stretch. Then Raylene swooped elegantly, taking my glans into her mouth. When I was hard they retreated, taking their original places beside me, to leave the field for Lynette.

Lynette reached my feet and didn’t stop. She climbed up my body – she was a slight girl – and clambered aboard. If she still had a message for me, she was going to impale herself on my cock and sit and rock before she delivered it.

I tried to move my hips and found there was some obstacle. I couldnt move. So I moved harder, and the convolsive jolt of my body and brain brought me back to Raylene’s bed, which was the size of an smallish double bed, and didn’t contain Bellie or Lynette. 

But Raylene lay beside me, so it was still a good and happy bed. She’d released her grip on my cock and rolled onto her side, facing away with her ass pushed against me. So the erection had still woken her. She moved her ass, luxuriously, against my cock. It was jabbing into her left buttock and wanting to find and burrow into the space between her buttocks.

It was dark. Raylene’s bedroom got no light from the street and there was no moonlight. to lying with her ass against my belly. She rolled towards me so our heads were close together. I kissed her. I supposed she could see enough to see that it was me. She smiled and kissed me back. She said, “Good mor – No, what time is it?”

“I don’t know. Who cares? And I’m still sir, girl.” 

She considered that. Perhaps she hadn’t remembered yesterday. Not yet. But she said, “Sir. Uh, let’s – “

"You should be stronger than me"

“You should be stronger than me”

There was no need to say anything more, and she didn’t. I kissed her again, slipping my hand down to stroke her cunt. Actually, that was to disguise a wetness text. Raylene more than passed. (Had she had a sexual dream too?) She rolled onto her side, my fingers still in her, wonderfully womanly wet, and she pushed her ass at me.

I said, “No. Onto your back, girl.”

Raylene grunted and rolled back, pulling on my shoulder to bring my body down on her. I remembered someone singing, “I just wanna rip your body onto mine.” It was the way she’d sung “rip” that made it sexy.

I fucked Raylene as gently as I could, while she held me with her thighs, and her hands on my shoulders, looking up at me, reading my face. I wanted it to feel as loving as it was. We had things to talk about afterwards. 

 

Terracing blues

Personally, life is good. I’ve just paid off my mortgage, so I own my land and buildings. I’ve chucked in my job, and even after paying the mortgage, I’ve got enough money to keep me in champagne and travel for a couple of years. 

Which gives me time to finish a revision of the bdsm book (chapters 1 and 2 are crap and need re-writing from the ground up, though the rest is okay). I want that published by a dead-tree publisher, because it’s a Serious Work, and also for the kudos of it. After that I can maybe sell other writing as e-books. 

I have another book, a novel, that also needs revision to make it work, but that will be published under a different name for various reasons, so I won’t say anything about it here.   Except to say that if it sells well, and people start screaming out for sequels, the third book will have the Mahdi (a saintly religious figure, or a 19th-century Sudanese slave-trader and rapist, primarily of young boys, depending on your point of view) as a character. 

And I’ve finished the terrace I’ve been building, to flatten some of the back garden so that drunk and stoned people don’t run helplessly downhill and fall over. Unless they want to. 

Stinks like a pile of dead rats at the moment, because I put down blood and bone mix before I sowed the grass seeds. It'll be all green in a few days.

My new terraces. They stink like a pile of dead rats at the moment, because I put down blood and bone mix before I sowed the grass seeds. It’ll be all green in a few days.

 

 

I’m one of those Top Sex Bloggers you’ve heard so much about!

In good company

In good company

I’m ridiculously pleased that I’ve been listed as one of the Top 100 Sex Bloggers, over at Molly’s Daily Kiss

When I first started this blog, I didn’t have any audience, and for a long time I doubted that anyone was reading the thing at all. (I didn’t have a Site Visit counter when I started.)

I decided that that meant I could say anything, without worrying about having to fudge or falsify too much, except for preserving anonymities. 

One thing I wanted to do with this blog was to tell the truth about being a male dom. I wanted to get away from The Dom as Superhero. I make mistakes. I’m not careless but I can be breathtakingly naive, including about my own motives. I like sex two hells of a lot, but sometimes I just fall asleep, and sometimes I take breaks.

As a dom I take charge. Generally, it’s what the submissive woman I’m with wants me to do. If she doesn’t want that, then it doesn’t happen. It’s what I want to do, most of the time. But sometimes I’m faking it and this blog is where I’ll admit it: I may have no clue what that submissive woman should be told to do.

If it’s about sex I’m confident I’ll think of something good, but if it’s a life issue like work or family problems, then I may have some relevant experience (I’ve been a union rep, and I’ve been a counsellor, for example) but often I won’t know a really good answer. I do my best to help her work something out, but I’m not always sure how helpful I’ve been. So this blog features a lot of stuff about that kind of self-doubt and worry. 

Your author, celebrating the Top 100 Sex Blogger badge. Scary happy

Your ridiculously coiffed author, celebrating the Top 100 Sex Blogger badge. Scary happy

It’s true that a number of submissive women have wanted to play with me, or live with and be loved by me. That’s why I can go into situations with some confidence that things will turn out ok, and sexy. It’s also the reason I haven’t run out of stories yet.

But it’s also true that I’m a short, not exceptionally fit dom with fucking ridiculous hair, and no clear idea of why the hell anyone would want to bed me.

I mean, bed me for the first time. This is realism, not false modesty. I do know reasons a woman might want to fuck me again.

So this blog is partly about bodies that meet and celebrate, and how utterly wonderful bdsm can feel. It’s also partly about desires and fears, and in my case the planning and the guesswork that goes into a session or a long-term project. I’ll write about the submissive woman’s feelings, as far as I can read them (or listen when she tells me), and how a planned bdsm session will change to take her emotional and sexual responses into account. The ass and the heart need each other.

So I tell the truth as far as I know it about each story, and I hope that it makes entertaining reading. I change names and other identifying details. With only a couple of exceptions, where I’ve been specifically asked to write something, I’ve never written about a woman I’m currently involved with. I mostly don’t know the truth well enough to tell it, until a bit of time has passed.

Anyway, now I have readers. I’m grateful to you all, and I hope you keep coming back. I’m just going to keep on writing as if no-one can see this blog.

Humiliation of an ex-Nazi submissive 73: The penile alarm

Raylene was waiting on the bed, lying on her front with her glowing ass in the air. She’d probably been waiting on all fours while I kissed her older sister, as one does, but as time passed she’d sunk a little closer to the bed, half-snoozing. 

Couldn't help feeling I'd done well by her

Couldn’t help feeling I’d done well by her

I pulled off my shirt and dropped my pants, freeing an erection that was, just then, reacting just as much to sister Dorabella’s sudden return of interest in fucking me as to Raylene.

It seemed time to make it clear that Raylene was my girl, whatever other desires I might have, so I grabbed her feet and tugged them down the bed and further apart.

Raylene yelped once and then slipped helplessly down until she was bent over the bed, wide awake and wild-eyed.

Her orifices were both raised and presented, and I had a moment’s impulse to take her ass, the road less travelled.

I was sure Raylene had been butt-fucked before, but when I did take her lasshole for the first time I’d still have to enter her slowly and reasonably gently. But I wasn’t feeling gentle, and I wanted my cock in her urgently.

So I pushed into her cunt, a sweet, slippery paradise, while Raylene mewed softly. Raylene lifted her hips and spread a little more, to get me in deeper. We enjoyed that moment, all of my cock in her, for about half a second, then we suddenly and simultaneously burst into movement, fucking as fast and hard as we could. Raylene was panting hard with exertion and excitement, and the bedhead started whacking against the wall again. Poor Bellie, in the next room, no doubt with her head under a pile of pillows. 

For some reason, that thought reminded me to reach for the razor strop, and thwap it down across Raylene’s flanks, also as fast and hard as I could.

She was using me as her tripwire. But her hand felt nice

She was using me as her tripwire. But her hand felt nice

For a few seconds I felt like a jockey, riding my girl in triumph, except that horses didn’t make that much noise. I mean approaching a finishing line; I can’t comment on their sex noises. Anyway, I soon lost coordination and focussed on the fucking. 

And Raylene howled, eventually, and then I came in her, silent out of pointless consideration for poor Bellie.

Eventually, we fell asleep together. Raylene rested her hand around my cock.

I suppose it was a sort of alarm. When I next showed signs of life and interest, she’d wake up.