Wicked Wednesday: Monica laughs at my cunnilingus

Monica washed my cock, as instructed, and then took it in her mouth. I was in no condition to get hard, having come in her ass not so long ago. But then she teased my balls with her breasts, nipples and beautifully soft skin touching sensitive skin. The sensdation was new to me, and extremely nice. After that she had a hard cock to play with.

But no matter what she did with her mouth and tongue, she wasn’t likely to get any come from me. Not for another hour, at least. I didn’t mind that. I liked the sensations, and I enjoyed the service, the feeling that my slave was serving my pleasure.

But eventually I pulled her head off me by her hair, and rolloed us over.

I slipped down her body, and she spread and lifted her thighs, holding her legs by the backs of her knees, while I tongued her. 

We stayed together, soft thighs against my ears, her feet occasionally touching my back. My face wet, and buried in her, the horizontal mouth and the vertical mouth, slipping and sliding. Monica laughed sometimes. I took it that meant she was happy, and not that I was ridiculous, so I decided to enjoy the sound.

But in time the laughter stopped and we had gibbering instead, and her cunt pressing harder, faster and greedier against me, my nose and chin wet with her. Her hand held my shoulders as she gasped, and then my ears, and she froze suddenly and came, with no screaming, just a happy, comfortable sound.

I kissed her cunt and then her belly, and said she was a good girl. Orgasms are self-rewarding, but I’ve always had the urge to reward them with praise as well. I like the way women sound and the feel of them when they come. I suppose in some way it feels like surrender to my Domly power. Doms are, perhaps, slightly insane, or perhaps only this one is.

I was going to say it was time to get up and go shopping for collars, but I realised that she’d fallen asleep. So I cuddled up her her side, and closed my eyes too.

Wicked Wednesday: Gor blimey! A Collar?

I’d just asked Monica if she knew what a collar was. There was a silence. 

“They have them in those fucking awful Gor books, don’t they. ‘I will put my collar on you. You are wearing my collar. It is good that you wear my collar, little kajillion, or some name like that.’ The slavegirl lowered her eyes. ‘I am collared,’ she said simply. ‘I wear your collar.’ And so forth like that?”

“Good parody. I take it that actually you’ve read a few of those?”

Monica snuggled in closer. “Yes. They were really, really beyond terrible, I know. But when you’re fifteen and you’d like to – well, surrender a bit, they were fantastically sexy. I bought maybe four of them, before I realised they’re all much the same.”

“I bet they all fell open at the whipping scenes.”

“Oh yes. Once I’d owned them for a bit.”

“Yes, well. But the collaring idea has sort of floated free from the Gor books. Most people who do bdsm probably don’t even know that’s where collars came from. Now they mean whatever the people want them to mean.” 

“What do you want it to mean, Master?” She jabbed her elbow into my stomach, to underline, or undermine, that ‘Master’. So I smacked her bottom eight times, before getting a “Sorry.” Then I held her down with my left hand, and applied for six more smacks, making them much harder. She squirmed and said, “Ow!” She didn’t mean it had hurt. 

“Possession, little one. That you’re my property. We can do a contract if you want, setting out what you give me, which is you, basically. And what I give you, which is love and care. And authority. Discipline. Then we sign.”

“In blood! Has to be in blood!” She looked very appealing when she bounced. 

“Oh, all right. Anyway, think of it as your ownership papers, like for a car.” 

She rolled onto her stomach, and looked down at my cock. It had recently been in her ass. If she wanted to suck me, I’d make her wash me first, with a warm, soapy cloth. She’d wash me, I knew, till I was hard, and do the rest with her mouth. It’d be another of those little acts of service, that weren’t really about service.

“Shall we go and get me a slave collar? Or are you busy this morning?” 

“I think we plan to be very busy this morning. Go get a warm, soapy cloth.” 

She said, “Hmmf.” I smacked her again, then reached for the wooden spoon. She scrambled up. “Yes, Master.”

Sinful Sunday: Over the Moonlight

 Arethusa, cuffed and clipped, fixed tightly over the whipping bench. There’s something abstract about that image, her arm close to me but fixed down, her thighs behind the wood of the bench.

Her photographer has a wooden paddle in his hand, and it has proven to be the harshest implement she’s ever encountered. She’s about to be taken.

It is night, under a full moon, and over the moon. We can hear creatures around us, possums and sugar gliders shocked by the things humans will do, when it’s time for a very deep, very savage kind of sex.

She told me later that this encounter had become her go-to masturbation memory. That made me incredibly happy, and weirdly proud. It’s as dark, in the Dark Lord sense, as I’ve ever been.

Wicked Wednesday: Monica gets used (and used to it)

I liked the little groan Monica gave, when I entered her ass, just the glans of my cock in past that muscle. She’d insisted that I fuck her hard, and not care if it hurt her, so this time I didn’t stop to let her get used to my presence. I pushed forward, into Monica’s lubed but very tight asshole, slowly enough for her to be able to feel herself yielding every centimetre, but faster than usual. 

Then we were pressed together, Monica’s asshole firmly plugged with me, and her heated, well welted bottom pressed against the cooler skin of my groin and the fronts of my thighs. I stopped, loving the sensations, while she panted, hard, four times, like a dog. It was only the second time she’d ever been anally fucked, and that first time had been only about two hours ago. 

I kissed her shoulder. “Getting used to it, girl?”

“No!” She was lying, though. I withdrew again, almost all the way out, and pushed forward again. Monica squealed on the in-stroke. It didn’t sound like pain. It was system overload: too mach sensation. When I’d filled her, and we pressed tight together again, I smacked the left side of her thigh.

The slap rang in the room. Monica said, “Fuck.” It wasn’t a protest.

So we fucked, a heated girl, the man who had beaten and heated her enjoying the warmth blaring from her soft skin. She was moving with me now, and kept her tightly bent ass pressed against me as I fucked her. Monica had been on her hands and knees, but as the fuck progressed her arms slowly buckled and her breasts and face pressed down against the pillows. 

I smiled, not that she could see me. For some reason that collapse looked and felt like surrender, and it touched and reached me. I was already smitten, but it was probably time to think about the longer term soon. Not now, though. I reached down to grasp her hips in my hands, holding her tight and meaning my grasp to hurt her, as I held her tight against me. Monica sighed. It was a happy sound.

And then we fucked. A couple of times I had to slow down, and once I froze, since another move would make me come, and I was enjoying myself too much. Monica liked the hard, fast sequences, and at one stage I suspected her of having sneakily come without permission.

I didn’t make an issue of it. But at last I smacked her hard again, and growled, “Now, little pipi. You come now,” and we moved up a gear, fucking as hard and fast as we could. There was no sneakiness in her second orgasm: she yelled and yowled, my loud girl, and then subsided, panting again, while I pumped her and came in her myself. I sank down onto her back until she was flat on the bed, on her tummy with me on top of her, cock still hard in her ass. 

We kept still for a long time. I think she was enjoying the experience of my cock slowly wilting, shrinking, inside her. So was I. I could only kiss her shoulder. I said, “pipi.”

She said, “Master.” Neither of us meant anything specific. She reached for my right hand and held it. At last I had to withdraw because if I didn’t I’d lose the condom. We turned then and held each other. Usually I wash after anal, even with a condom, or make my girl get a warm cloth and wash me, but we were too fond and happy to care. We rolled over, so I was under her. I stroked her breasts.

Lots of things occurred to me. The one I said was, “You know what a collar means?”

 

Sinful Sunday: Request granted

“Please punish me, Sir,” she’d said. 

She knew that punishment was coming, whatever she said, but it’s sexier to ask for it. She’s admitted that sometimes part of her thinks that if she asks very nicely she might get a stroke or two off. But another part hopes she won’t, and she would be very disappointed if she did.

Once in position, over the whipping bench, she’s on a ride. Submission becomes some kind of fairground attraction. She’s bought her ticket, and now she hopes it as exciting as she can bear. 

You don’t control a rollercoaster while you’re on it. But afterwards yours eyes sparkle and your face glows. 

 

Sinful Sunday: You won’t see me. But you’ll know I’m there.

She’s asked nicely and, as far as I could tell, sincerely, to be caned, and of course she will be. 

But there’s always the warm-up first. The leather paddle doing good, loud, work. She’s still worried about the caning to come, but she knows that the warm-up is a good thing: erotic and sensual in itself, and also a sign of care. I can’t be as angry with her as I’m pretending. 

Soon, she knows, we’ll fuck, and she will pretend to be very sorry and I’ll pretend that I’ve only just forgiven her. Hypocrites, we Doms and submissives. In a way. But we also know each other closely, and we know the truth, too. 

She knows she won’t be allowed to come for at least an hour. And that when she does, she’ll finally be told what she already knows: that she’s a good girl. 

 

 

 

 

 

Sinful Sunday: Please Sir

When she says, “Please punish me, Sir,” she’s being a conspicuously Good Girl. Every aspect of her presentation is a display that says, “I’m a good girl, really.”

Her eyes and her face are downcast, and her open hands hold out the instrument of her punishment. Her hands are open because she knows she’s not allowed to close her hands on the cane. She bent down, naked, to take it from the floor in her mouth, then released it onto her open hands. And then held out those hands to me, offering both herself and it. Details and body language matter.

The wool over the whipping bench, behind her, tells her that she’s going to be spending some time bent over there. That matters too. It would be a terrible world, boring, unloving, unsexy, if I didn’t pay close attention to her needs, even when delivering discipline.

She gives a perfect display of submission. It’s come just a little too late to save her bottom and upper thighs. But that doesn’t make this moment less enchanted, for either of us. I’m not ready to tell her she’s a “good girl”. Not yet. But I will be soon.

Monica the lube monitor

Monica lay facedown on the bed, legs spread, ass arched up so she could lube herself. She turned to watched me watching her, her finger glazed with lube, delving into her ass. “Do I look hot?”

“You look hot. Also obedient, which I like. And beautiful. So, yeah, you’re pretty much my ideal woman.”

She pulled her finger out and half turned, to coat it with more lube. “I feel hot. I mean turned on. But I was sure this looks pretty good, in your eyes.”

“Yup.”

“Pervert.”

“And proud of it.” I smacked her thigh. And put a condom on, because she really was enticing me.

“Good boy. Master! Re condom. Can I – ?” She rolled over and sat up, taking my cock in one hand and slathering the other with lube. I said nothing. She knew that lubing me was almost sex in itself, and that if she did it for long I’d need a new condom, and some down time.

She looked in my eyes. “I guess this is service. It feels good.” 

I kissed her, since her face was close. “This is sort of service. But real service comes from doing things for your Master that you wouldn’t usually get pleasure from. Like, how are you at ironing shirts?”

“I suck at it. Guess I can learn. I can imagine how it’d feel sexual if it’s slave service, and I knew that I’m pleasing my Master. But I’m pretty good at looking after boots!” 

“Then you get both, pipi. Uh, it’s time you got on your hands and knees now.” 

“It is.” Monica turned and got into a sort of catlike position, knees wide apart, back arched so her cunt and glazed asshole were pointed at me. I got up on my knees and shuffled forward till I had my hands on her hips and my cock just touching that tight muscle. So she knew I was there.

“Just say if it gets uncomfortable, or painful. I only like to hurt you in ways I can control.” 

Monica shook her head violently. “No! I want you to fuck me hard. I don’t care if it hurts. All the better if it does. Just fuck me. Er, please, Master.”

So I smacked the sides of her crimson, richly warm and red ass, and pushed forward,, until the head of my cock was firmly inside her. 

Monica groaned.

Sinful Sunday: The Glory of Marks

Marks. We both loved her marks. They tell a story, and she could see that story just by turning her back on a mirror and looking over her shoulder. 

These marks told two stories. She’d just been punished, a nice straight set of stripes from the cane. That was one story, a very traditional one between a Master and his slave.

But there were also warm blotches on the outer side of her left buttock, and another, a little lower on the outer side of her right thigh. They tell a different story. We’d fucked after her caning, because it’s such a submissive and accessible position, and we both need to feel each other, hard, after she’s been punished. 

But the best thing of all, about that position, is that I can spank her, hard, while we’re fucking. It helped her feel surrendered, plundered, while we’re fucking, and we both loved that sensation too.

The glow of the handprints tell us both about the glory of that sex.

And now she’d been caned, fucked and spanked, and we’re catching our breath. But she’s still not allowed to rise. There’s a paddle, not far away. And it’s about to become part of her life.