A Memory..
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Posted:Mar 2, 2017 5:28 pm
Last Updated:Feb 24, 2024 1:09 am 10053 Views
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This morning, for no particular reason, I had a vivid recollection of her, fine and detailed; the memory opened for me like a carefully creased note, folded and left to be discovered in the pocket of an old suit of clothes.
I remembered the click-latch sound of the door closing behind us. I remembered undressing her in increments, baring her shoulders and her breasts slowly, each spot on her body taking center stage as it was revealed.
I remembered taking my time.
I remembered the hush, a barely perceptible wisp, of her dress hitting the floor.
I remembered moving her to the center of the room.
I remembered her bare feet on the braided wool rug.
The walls were painted blue. There was an armoire against the wall, a mirror inside the door. I remembered adjusting the door just so; I would watch her reflection as I played.
Two scarves in the armoire; the first, the pale color of sun-bleached bones, went round her wrists, tied behind her back. Her tied hands came to rest on the gentle curve where her spine met her bottom. The second one, the grey-blue color of the Parisian sky in winter, went over her eyes.
As I cinched the nearly-blue scarf tight around her auburn hair, I remembered, her head tipped, chin up, her neck exposed, a welcome and an invitation. I trailed the line of her neck with my nails and brought my lips to hers. A lingering soft kiss, lips and tongues losing their boundaries.
Even with the door closed, we could hear them down the hall – her father and her mother and her ancient great aunt – making dinner, playfully bickering, laughing. Each voice distinct. That one’s not ripe … Not that one; the one with the wood handle … . You’ll need the sharp one, in the drawer … .
I told her, “spread your legs, pretty girl,” I remembered, and she did.
I remembered telling her “you’ll cum now” and she said “yes,” just “yes,” a simple “yes.” A confession of desire and statement of fact.
I remembered how she smelled. Just from the shower, her hair still a little wet, the scent of lilac soap and the musk of her sex. She smelled luxuriant. Thick and rich and autumnal. The smell of the deep woods just before the rain.
I remembered that when I first slid my fingers between her legs, cupping her mons, she had already gone liquid. My fingers glided without sound, without effort, at the threshold, parting, pressing, sliding along her lips, my thumb gently rolling her hood and the swelling beneath.
I recalled her breathing, slow and measured, her brow beginning to furrow as she concentrated on my play.
I took a very, very long time with her, though I don’t recall precisely how long. I could tell from the inclination of her hips and the color of her skin that she came to the brink early, that I could have made her crest easily had I wanted, but I recall enjoying the drama of her accumulating need too much to hurry.
Eventually, her breathing became more labored, uncertain, inconsistent … and her body showed signs of struggle. Eyes blind, hands tied, standing in the middle of the room, with nothing to rest against, her equilibrium began to ebb. She wobbled. As she felt her climax building incessantly, from the marrow out, coursing towards the surface, she began to shift uneasily. Her hips rotated and she widened her stance. I remembered her knees bent slightly; she was trying to find a lower center of gravity.
Fuck me she said hoarsely; fuck it out of me. It was a plea. Fuck me because she wanted something stiff and thick stretching her inside. Fuck me because she felt an atavistic need beating inside of her for a rhythmic usage, instead of the arhythmic manipulation of my fingers playing on her lips.
But fuck me also because her legs were now in full revolt. She teetered and swayed like a on a hill. If I fucked her, she reckoned, I would have to lay her someplace, or bend her over something, or lean her into something – at least grab hold of her. As it was, as I fingered her, she knew the climax welling inside her would soon overtake her, and perhaps demand more of her than she was able to handle. Her pussy sent peristaltic waves through her body, and she knew unstoppable convulsions were close at hand, and as she felt herself wobble, she worried about her ability to stay upright.
Her face showed a pinched discomfort as she tried to deal with both her rising tide and her disorientation. Her anguish was exquisite.
Instead of fucking her, I slipped fingers inside of her, deep, for the first time. The two fingers – middle and ring – slipped in and curled up, found the special spot on her anterior wall, and began the deep massage. My fingers curved and then closed, in a come hither curl, rubbing her closer and closer to release.
This was like a trip wire for her – it didn’t take long before she began to quiver. Her face reddened. As her climax rushed to the surface from her core, her brain thought to say something – oh god, perhaps, or maybe don’t stop. Whatever she thought to say, however, I never knew because her brain was an electrical storm, and her nerves a frazzle. No words came from her mouth, just an indistinct sort of tortured grunt.
At that point, I recall, her knees bent, she folded at the waist, and her body began to shudder violently. Her arms behind her, legs spread, bent at the waist, leaning out, she looked like a ski-jumper speeding down the ramp.
My pretty girl, mannered and poised, with her advanced degrees and her publications, her easy erudition … all gone. She was now a squatting, heaving, grunting little beast, struggling to stay upright.
I recalled distinctly how my pretty girl effused. Her pleasure made slick my fingers, pooled briefly in my palm, then glistened on my arm.
That night, with my belly full of her mother’s chicken and dates and too much coarse red wine, I lay back in her bed – the bed where she first read Nancy Drew and then Jonathan Swift – and I put my hands behind my head, fingers interlocked, and I played the pasha. I was the sultan, and she my Scheherazade. She straddled me and took me deep. Her body undulated, whipping at the hips like a sundress on a close line, snapping in the wind.
The next morning, as we said our goodbyes, I kissed her great aunt on both cheeks and told her how much I had enjoyed my visit. She answered “I know” with an impish smile, and I think that she did. I think she heard me undress and devour her favorite niece … I believe that she heard the unmistakable sounds of her niece’s pleasure.
And as she turned from me and made her way back inside, she seemed to be lost in thought. Perhaps she was recovering a memory of her own, like opening a carefully creased note, folded and left to be discovered in the pocket of an old suit of clothes.
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The Edge...
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Posted:Mar 2, 2017 5:42 am
Last Updated:Feb 5, 2022 4:00 am 9667 Views
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The Edge...
There was nothing in this moment, except the burn of pain, the overwhelming pleasure, and Him. The tie found its way around her wrists that were pressed together above her head as expected, pulling taut and trapping them as one unit. His lips found hers again, taking the time to savor them thoroughly along with her squeals from his attentions.
His eyes twinkled as he pulled away, smiling down at her squirming form, her pouting lips, before retrieving a comfortable chair and setting it between her dripping thighs at the foot of the bed. The buckets he lifted next to her thighs were new and looked heavy. She would soon know their contents intimately, He slowly slid on a pair of latex gloves and began. From the first touch of the gel, her lips swelled, her clit throbbed, and her pussy clenched. And not because of her denial, although that certainly didn’t help. It soaked into her skin, finding every nerve, every pleasure point, and setting each aglow with pleasure. His hand dipped into the bucket again and again, drowning her pussy in the concoction. Fingers penetrating her slit, coating her inside and out, each layer seeming to intensify the feelings. Not even her tight asshole escaped the treatment.
Her struggling increased with each application, eating away at her will to obey, to stay still, to hold position. Even tied and trained, her fingers instinctively made their way south, trying to either stop his devious plan or sneak in the orgasm she so craved. For her trouble, she found herself even more tightly bound, tied wrists pulled to the headboard, hips secured from squirming away, ankles trapped in straps preventing them from closing. His tongue clicked in admonishment at her disobedience, standing over her now quite immobile frame. Slowly removing his belt from the straps, he made sure that her pussy felt the sting of his disapproval, leaving her red, swollen and whimpering before returning to the task at hand.
He emptied the first bucket entirely, dozens, hundreds of layers, each soaking deeper and deeper towards her fiery center. The dredges he spread in slow circles on her aching nipples with a wicked smile. Standing back, he admired his work. Before him, the gel had already begun its devious effects. Her hips and wrists tugged against their restraints to try and find some sort of relief. The sensations were overpowering. Even just his breath on the treated areas made her thrash and moan in desperation. And yet there was nothing she could do to dampen her lust until he allowed it. Would he?
“Now my darling” he said with a devious grin as his fingers played with her throbbing pearl, “let me tell you a little about this creation of mine. Somewhere in your lust filled haze, you might have already guessed what it does. Each layer slowly sinks into every pleasure nerve in your body, wrapping around them and stimulating them to such pleasure that it will take you right to the brink of orgasm. Why so many layers you ask? Oh to bring you to the edge all the quicker, my dear. The first should hit soon. And then they will come faster and faster. A single touch while teetering on these edges would be enough to send you into pure bliss.” The look in his eye teased her with the possibility, his fingers maddeningly light between her legs. “The effect is temporary. For each layer, a thorough shower will remove it, slowly lessening the intensity day by day. Still, it will take several months for them to diminish entirely. You will be constantly on the edge, ready for my pleasure at all times, desperate for me, just the way I like you.” Somehow she didn’t think he was finished. He enjoyed denying her far too much for that. Then the first edge hit and she stopped thinking as her moan permeated the room.
“I expect you are wondering what might be waiting in this second bucket,” he grinned at her writhing body, quickly removing his hands so as not to trigger the orgasm she craved. “If the first was fire, this is ice. Let me show you how it works.” Dipping his fingers into the second gel, he mirrored his strokes between her lips, his touch light and teasing, and yet it did not take her over the edge. Her skin went cold without dampening the fire within her at all. And then she could no longer feel his fingers. Her lips, her clit, the walls of her pussy, of her asshole, even her nipples all went cold under his attentions. Not a single touch slaked her lust which continued to build and build within her, the edges coming hard and fast now. He slowly emptied the bucket as he had done before. Each layer sinking, sealing, wrapping around the fiery core he had created in her. She slowly began to realize its purpose.
His attentions complete, he sat back and watched her writhe. “My properly prepared little slut. Finally you can fulfill your desire of focusing entirely on my pleasure. Your holes at my whim, your body for my use and abuse. Oh how I look towards your devoted service.” He slowly untied her, kissing her deeply as he did so, letting her hands free so that could explore her new reality. She could not feel her touch, only the constant ache of the edges between steadily ripped from her body. She tried everything, every pleasure spot she had enjoyed before, hidden from her. She fell to her knees and begged him for mercy, for release, for the antidote. He smiled down at her and shook his head. “Oh there is no antidote my darling. This is now your natural state. And it always will be. Your pleasure locked away without a key, mine to hold forever. This is my gift to you. Enjoy it.”
Removing his gloves, he slowly release his aching cock and introduced her to her new role. He smiled and groaned as her gagging throat moaned around him. He knew what she truly desired. And now, finally, he’d been able to grant it. She was his, always.
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Fuck Toy....
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Posted:Feb 28, 2017 3:49 pm
Last Updated:Feb 12, 2020 2:28 am 11784 Views
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Fuck Toy ...
His hands on her—on her waist, holding tight. No—his hands pinning her wrists above her head.
Was he fucking her yet? No, not yet. His hands were on her thighs now and he was dragging his tongue over her pussy.
(her fingers moved faster on her clit)
What if—what if her hands was tied above her head? If she couldn’t touch him, was there for him to play with, to pleasure?
But what if they weren’t tied? What if she could reach down, grab his hair, tug at it, guide him, push his face into her pussy as she arched her back for more, more, more—
Would he let her? Let her ride his face until she pulled him up, nails in his back, and hissed, “Fuck me”? Or would he slap her thigh, then bite the sting, punishing her for being a greedy little bitch?
(she gasped, pressed her face into the mattress)
He could never resist, though, could never resist when she was being greedy. He’d give her what she wanted—give her three, no, four fingers in her pussy when she only wanted two, calling her his filthy little girl…
(oh god, oh god)
So dirty—no, so naughty for wanting this, for wanting to be touched, for wanting fingers inside her pretty little cunt—
(she shoved two fingers inside herself, arched her back, whined)
Dripping all over his hand, look at how wet she was, Daddy’s bad little girl—and then… and then… what? Did he keep fingering her, cooing filthy things in the sweetest voice? Or did he decide to punish her for her greedy cunt? Did he start bringing out bigger and bigger toys, pushing them inside her and barely giving her time to adjust before pulling it out and inserting the next?
Would he tie her up with their biggest vibrator inside her? What if he got his fingers on her clit and rubbed it until she was so overwhelmed all she could do was cum—
(she dropped her hips, rubbed her clit against the mattress, wrist cramping from the awkward angle…)
(she came with a violent, gasping shudder, hips making tiny aborted thrusts into the mattress)
(“that was pretty,” he said from the doorway. “What were you thinking about?”)
(she was too fucked-out to respond)
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A Man Who Knows You...
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Posted:Feb 28, 2017 3:24 pm
Last Updated:Jul 14, 2021 3:28 am 9853 Views
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A Man Who Knows You...
A Man who displays sensitivity will be a Master who is sensitive to you.
A Man who displays humility will be a Master who will show you respect.
A Man who is not afraid to cry will be a Master who understands your tears.
A Man who is quiet will be a Master who will hear your quietest whisper,
A Man who knows fear will be a Master who will not leave you to face yours alone.
A Man who will listen to a will be a Master who will always work to understand your words.
A Man who can stand alone will be a Master who will not crush you under His weight.
A Man who controls Himself with ease will be a Master with the ability to control you in the same way.
A Man who does not have to prove His point will be a Master with many worthwhile points to share.
A Man who never makes demands will be a Master who treasures anything you give.
A Man who doesn’t run after you will be a Master you will never need to run away from.
A Man who is calm will be a Master who can weather your storms.
A Man who has walked the path to peace will be a Master able to guide you along that path.
A Man who does not shout will be a Master who will never deafen you.
A Man who knows Himself will be a Master who will have time to know you.
A Man with an open mind will be a Master who never stops learning.
A Man who never stops learning will be a Master who never stops growing.
A Man who always seeks to be the best He can be for you is the only Man truly worthy of being called Master.
Dominantlife.
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What He Wants.(And So Do I )..
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Posted:Feb 27, 2017 5:22 pm
Last Updated:Feb 7, 2020 1:40 am 9984 Views
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What He Wants (And So Do I )...
I want to make you squirm. I want to hear your moan and scream. I want to see the desperation in your eyes, the desperation that comes only when the physical sensations that are overwhelming your nervous system are paired with the fearful recognition that you have absolutely no control.
No…we’re not done yet. I want to make this last a little longer.
When she felt, her body convulse when the rope was on her skin when there was nothing but His voice, His hands, and His will…the rest of the world gave away. She loved the feel of the rope digging into her, of the resonating sting on her ass and her cheeks.
Every ounce of pain that she felt reminded her that she was in his control, and under his protection.
And in that moment, she felt free, and her release came. And even here, as she screamed in tones she had never heard herself release, she remained under his control, forced to continue her pleasure long past what she thought had been possible.
There was nothing in this moment, except the burn of pain, the overwhelming pleasure, and Him.
She laid there waiting for him to return. He would make her wait just long enough that the rope would start to itch. Lying in bed, unable to move, she could only focus on the sensation of the rope on her skin, and in that sensation, was left in state of constant awareness
Each moment brought a new level of intensity that she hadn’t known was possible. Each new level of intensity brought a new spasm pulsating through her limbs. Each new spasm caused the bindings on her wrists and ankles to dig more into her skin. Each time the ropes dug into her skin, she was reminded of the absolute helplessness she had in this moment. Each moment she realized she was helpless, she would feel a new wave of pulsating pleasure.
There was nothing she could do but scream through the gag, feeling the heat of her saliva running down her cheeks.
She simply accepted each round of pleasure as it was given to her. There was no other choice.
I like that moment, when your body quivers uncontrollably, when with your release your body spasms every muscle in an argument against the possibility of this intensity of pleasure.
I like that moment because those quivers in your legs…that’s your body wearing itself out. It will make it all the easier for me to break you down.
I let you quiver, for just that moment.
And then…just when you think we’re about to rest…that’s when I throw you to the floor.
That’s when the true fun begins.
Lifestylesofkink....
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SAFE...
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Posted:Feb 26, 2017 4:53 pm
Last Updated:Feb 28, 2017 7:28 am 9853 Views
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SAFE...
Safe. That’s what it all boils down to, I think. Home. Where we all are drawn to. Those two words are at the center of any romance. Every True romance. Sure, there are lots of other items we prefer to seek to get checked off. Items like passion, pain, lust, need, submission, dominance, rules, limits, toys, excitement, electricity, and power. But at the end of the scene, or day, or week, or month, we NEED safe. We NEED home. It’s our grounding. If you don’t believe me, try this right now…. Go stand with your bare feet touching the Earth. You can literally feel how good a proper and real grounding is. And when work is shit, or our won’t mind (again!) or the electric bill just jumped 25%, or goddamn it, you know I wanted a cold beer when I got home, well it is in those moments that we need safe and we need home. Think of a generalized D/s relationship. The sub gives up control to the Dom. The Dom makes decisions in the best interest of their sub. What is really happening? Two people finding their way home. To a safe place. Each other. If you don’t have or can’t fathom this idea of safe and home, then I feel for you. Because you are missing out on what is best in this world: reality.
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ProfessorErotica.
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A Woman's Body...
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Posted:Feb 23, 2017 3:44 am
Last Updated:Nov 5, 2021 10:02 pm 11299 Views
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A Woman's Body
The entire mystery of pleasure in a woman’s body lies in the intensity of the pulsation just before the orgasm. Sometimes it is slow, one-two-three, three palpitations which then project a fiery and icy liqueur through the body. If the palpitation is feeble, muted, the pleasure is like a gentler wave. The pocket seed of ecstasy bursts with more or less energy, when it is richest it touches every portion of the body, vibrating through every nerve and cell. If the palpitation is intense, the rhythm and beat of it is slower and the pleasure more lasting. Electric flesh-arrows, a second wave of pleasure falls over the first, a third which touches every nerve end, and now the third like an electric current traversing the body. A rainbow of color strikes the eyelids. A foam of music falls over the ears. It is the gong of the orgasm. There are times when a woman feels her body but lightly played on. Others when it reaches such a climax it seems it can never surpass. So many climaxes. Some caused by tenderness, some by desire, some by a word or an image seen during the day. There are times when the day itself demads a climax, days of which do not end in a climax, when the body is asleep or dreaming other dreams. There are days when the climax is not pleasure but pain, jealousy, terror, anxiety. And there are days when the climax takes place in creation, a white climax. Revolution is another climax. Sainthood another.
— ~ Anais Nin
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Remember....
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Posted:Feb 21, 2017 6:50 pm
Last Updated:Nov 5, 2021 10:02 pm 10914 Views
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Remember...
Ignoring the problem does not make it disappear. It just makes it that much harder to solve. Gives it that much longer to erupt and destroy everything you’ve been fighting for.
You can’t run away and hide from your wounds. They will still throb and fester even if you don’t acknowledge their presence. They will still bleed. They will still hurt.
You have, to be honest about what is breaking you apart. Be honest with your heart, mind, body, and soul about what unravels you. What brings you to the edge. What shatters your strength.
Only through honest vulnerability with yourself will you be able to discover how to stop the bleeding of your soul. How to quiet the voice of suffering. How to soothe the wounds inside of you.
You are the medicine you are longing for. The antidote is your hope, your faith, and your belief that you are more. That you can live beyond the losses, mistakes, sadness…
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Remember...You are loved,
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That Moment...
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Posted:Feb 19, 2017 5:12 am
Last Updated:Feb 21, 2017 7:25 am 10787 Views
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That Moment...
Something changes the moment you decide you’ve found a person you are ready to reveal parts of your soul to. Something stands out and makes the moment unique. A profound multidimensional clarity resembling a piece of carefully gathered stardust; As if you are whispering “finally” and your eyes fill with light and spontaneity. As if you do not care whether your heart will melt or crumble in the process because your brief courage undoes your tremendous fear of disbelief. You live for these moments; For you are, maybe for one second or more, sweetly forced to surrender yourself to unconditional intimacy. A moment of psychological reward smashing all self-imposed disciplines founded on terror. This is all you need.
— Anaïs Nin, The Diary of Anaïs Nin,
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Relationships....
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Posted:Feb 18, 2017 1:58 pm
Last Updated:Feb 25, 2022 6:28 am 9473 Views
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Relationships....
When you love someone, you do not love them all the time, in exactly the same way, from moment to moment. It is an impossibility. It is even a lie to pretend to. And yet this is exactly what most of us demand. We have so little faith in the ebb and flow of life, of love, of relationships. We leap at the flow of the tide and resist in terror its ebb. We are afraid it will never return. We insist on permanency, on duration, on continuity; when the only continuity possible, in life as in love, is in growth, in fluidity - in freedom, in the sense that the dancers are free, barely touching as they pass, but partners in the same pattern. The only real security is not in owning or possessing, not in demanding or expecting, not in hoping, even. Security in a relationship lies neither in looking back to what was in nostalgia, nor forward to what it might be in dread or anticipation, but living in the present relationship and accepting it as it is now. Relationships must be like islands, one must accept them for what they are here and now, within their limits - islands, surrounded and interrupted by the sea, and continually visited and abandoned by the tides.
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Anne Morrow Lindbergh’s “The Gift From The Sea”
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