You are currently browsing the monthly archive for June, 2008.
I found a short piece from my sensual wish list that I had forgotten about. It reminds me that dominant/submissive liaisons can be about good humour, respect and a bit of high camp.
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I want a human dog.
He will be younger than me, eager to please, responsive to training but retain a spark of cheekiness so I can punish his perfectly curved backside.
He will learn to kneel by my side and, if he’s a good boy, I’ll have a water dish inscribed with his name, which might be Wolfgang if I like him, or Fluffy if I don’t.
I’ll also teach him to ‘stand’ on all-fours, lie down, roll over and lick on command. And beg, of course.
I’ll look forward to seeing him enter the room wearing nothing but his collar, lead and cuffs, greeting me on all-fours so I can inspect him. Skin, hair, genitals, mouth, anus, all in the name of immaculate presentation rather than my urges to perve and grope, of course.
His dress outfit will be a leather short-sleeved shirt with police emblems, leather pants and black lace-up boots so he can be my police dog. This is where my discipline as the dominant will turn to custard because I’ll be so turned on my hand will open the zip of his pants and pull his cock out for attention. Police dogs don’t wear underwear.
I’ll tie him up when I go out and he’ll be the one throwing me a bone when I return.
I am often the fatalist when facing something new that prods at my insecurities, such as wondering if I was up to meeting two men at the same time and leaving with smiles of satisfaction all round.
Planning, good fortune and equal levels of desire played their parts to make a delicious haze of warmth, sharing and delightful flashbacks that continue to invade my waking mind at the most inappropriate times. Jekyll also took a photo of Hyde working his fingers in my crop-marked backside as a memento. Thank goodness .jpg files don’t fade with age and wear thin at the corners from regular handling.
The only awkward moment of the day was slipping the hotel key at reception on the way out and not knowing the etiquette of saying I wouldn’t be staying the night, or hoping the obvious could be left unsaid. I went with the latter.
The only embarrassing part of the day was sitting and re-gaining mental clarity after some mind-bending pleasure, and seeing the mess of clothing, leather bits, toys and ropes scattered around the room. They were all mine. I don’t know how the half-dozen piles fitted earlier into one bag but the only non-sexual items I had packed were clean underwear, lipgloss and a toothbrush. J&H called me a hussy in its most flattering context; I replied I was just obsessed with being organised, and added in a slightly perverted way.
The funniest part of the day was surprising J and H with how much I laugh when I’m being pinched, bitten, hit and whipped. Neither is experienced in the BDSM sphere but a crop in one’s hand and a strop in the other’s — combined with two doses of wicked imagination — had me lying on the bed having both bottom cheeks and thighs whacked in an inspired percussion routine. Their experimentation with beat, rhythm and sheer ouch factor made us giggle at our childishness. Hyde even laid a smack on Jekyll’s arse with the strop and left a fire engine red L-shaped mark that we cheered.
The most lasting memory of the day was how naturally everything flowed between us. We came together with an uneven history: J and H have been involved casually including one time together with a third person, J and I have been seeing each other the last few weeks, and H and I have met briefly once. I knew everything would be all right when we entered the room and H kissed me, telling me he was looking forward to the day, and J looked on and smiled at us. They moved so smoothly and beautifully together.
The most joyous unplanned moment of the day was when I had two penises in my mouth, sucking both at the same time. None of us had thought of it in our ‘shopping lists’ but H was on his back and I bent over perpendicular to him, paying homage to his dick with my lips. I beckoned J to finger H’s arse and he slid a lubed finger in while I kissed him and enjoyed the view. After a couple of minutes J snapped into a ‘me too’ moment and kneeled in front of me, his erection poking at my cheek as I sucked on H. I opened, I manoeuvred, I sucked, I got us into a rhythm, I still don’t know how. It was like a trashy porn scene but affectionate and funny so I did it a second time just to make sure it really happened.
The most fulfilling moment of the day was J’s earlier promise that two sets of hands and mouths meant twice the enjoyment. He was correct. I spent indeterminable periods of time not knowing whose body parts were where and how they were being used as my nerve endings melded in a glorious overload of endorphins.
I don’t know how I could have been treated to so much yet crave more.
The Drummer surprises me sometimes. I’m always left shaking my head with amazement at the way he attacks me lustfully when I return from an encounter, as if removing the scent of someone else and marking me again with his own.
The first night I roamed sexually with M1, The Drummer was driving and too distracted by his uncontrollable imagination to concentrate on the road. He had to pull over and masturbate in the car before continuing his journey. When I returned the next morning he re-claimed my body while insisting on a blow-by-blow account of how the sexually-dominant M1 took me.
He’s been quiet this week, even though my day with Jekyll and Hyde is confirmed and looming. I have been low-key in making arrangements — I think it’s because his last liaisons with Dee were cancelled and he’s been right in saying meeting is easier for a woman. I struggle sometimes with having him and an ‘other’ while his ‘other’ side is less weighted than mine at present.
He bounced back today. This afternoon he said he had a surprise for me when we got home. I asked and prodded and harangued but he held his cards close to his chest. After we ate lunch he led me to the bedroom and pulled the surprise out of his backpack: a handful of industrial-strength cable ties, each about two-feet long and half an inch wide. There were no elephants or ships in the room that needed restraining and within seconds my wrists were joined by an unforgiving strip of white plastic.
I laughed at his creativity for someone who doesn’t express a strong interest in bondage. He ripped my jeans and underwear off. I kept giggling and he stuffed his dick in my mouth. It was more difficult to laugh with my mouth full and he thrusted until I was quiet.
He withdrew and pushed me on my back with my legs apart. He broke the silence as we were fucking by saying the cable ties were for my meeting with Jekyll and Hyde but he wanted the first try. He withdrew again, pulling my feet together and fixing a cable tie around my ankles. I was pushed on my side and fucked from behind, and then manoeuvred onto all fours and screwed doggy style.
After, he snipped the ankle tie, flipped me around on my back and went down on me until I thought his tongue would seize. Anti-depressants have an unerring way of bubbling quietly in my bloodstream until I am 90 per cent of the way to orgasm – then stir and leave me hanging there, giving and taking a few per cent until I think I’ll die of frustration.
I stopped The Drummer as 95 per cent was as far as I could get, stood him up and lubed his balls, rubbing them as he masturbated. He came in my mouth, down my hand, over his hand and on the quilt cover. I laughed again when he woke from his orgasmic daze and saw the mess he left.
I’ll throw the remaining cable ties in my tool bag in case Jekyll and Hyde want to get rough – and remember to include sharp scissors.
Jekyll had some free time after work and I had some ideas how to amuse him. He needed my riding crop applied to his backside after the previous day’s erotic text message taunting from himself and Hyde. Their tag-teaming when I was at work caused nearly everyone around to wear a spray of my sexually-frustrated snappiness.
We met and he led me through darkened hallways and training rooms, pinching my thighs and smacking my bottom as we walked. A partition wall rattled when he pushed me against it to kiss me. Bless the person who incorporated lycra into denim jeans because his free hand slid to its wet target without resistance.
A few tweaks of my engorged clit later, I melted in a puddle of liquid lust on the carpet.
“What’s in your tool bag?”
Fingers work circles in slickened cunt.
“Hmmmm, *gurgle*, doesn’t matter. You’ve ruined my plan.”
Legs almost buckling.
“What plan did you have? Tell me, tell me.”
Tongue drives down throat and brain cells seize.
“Um, something about, oh my god that’s good, whacking you with things for teasing me yesterday *purr*.”
Teeth scrape ear lobe.
“What’s wrong with that plan?”
Tongue and lips in frenzied assault on neck.
“Arghhhhh, because, um, something, come on brain, the second you do that I lose the plot and forget what, oh my god.”
Cock grinds into pelvis.
“You like that, don’t you?”
“Fuck you. Oh, yes, I do.”
He helped me replace my clothes, revelling that he was forcing me to walk with damp underwear stuck to my genitals. I left a trail of sexual aroma in my wake as we left the building – we giggled at our timely escape when a tradesman entered the room soon after we left.
We had only an hour after we got to Jekyll’s office. He bit, licked, pinched and bent me over his desk as he slapped my bottom cheeks a new shade of raspberry. I stood to face him and our heads nearly bumped as we both dove in a telepathic race to attack each other orally. The last of my rational thought processes expressed itself through my mouth and I heard myself tell him to get on all fours.
His arse is the first I’ve rimmed. He was clean, pliable and spread his legs as far as he was able so my tongue could lick in long lines from his testicles and dart around and inside his hole. I can’t wait to master that fine art.
It was the first time I’ve been in a 69 position on an office floor. I was on the bottom. There will be new stains on the faded green carpet after he worked four fingers and the start of a fist inside my sopping cunt.
He is the first man who’s made me ponder the definition of sex. We haven’t fucked yet in the traditional sense of the word, presumably because his erections come and go without rhyme or reason. While I figure him out sexually, he can continue coming in my mouth and kissing me before we swallow. Another blissful first.
Jekyll set some homework to help me get in touch with my inner anal goddess (or his inner perve, depending on perspective).
“I want a photo of the inflatable butt plug in your anus.”
It’s a weekend evening and I’m home alone, so what’s a girl to do apart from stick things in orifices and take happy snaps with the mobile phone camera?
Lights on
Phone charged
Vibrator selected
Inflatable butt plug within reach
Front door locked
Lube level checked
Order of events determined
I lavished dollops of lube over my shaved pubic region and contemplated photo opportunities as my labia swelled with blood. The German-engineered Fun Factory vibe worked its shivering magic over my clit and slid into my vagina effortlessly, my muscles craving the slab of moulded silicon to wrap around.
I shut my legs to concentrate the vibrations while I lubed the intimidating black butt plug. By then I was aroused enough to insert it into my anus to its hilt in three gentle pushes, feeling my sphincter close around the nub of the plug in a pleasingly short time. I spread my legs and took a few photos of my shiny cunt, vibe and butt plug all the way in as requested. Happy with the images, I put the phone down to concentrate on the newly-prioritised task of reaching orgasm.
The fucking electricity went off.
I whipped out the vibe, grabbed my underwear and groped for my jeans so I could head outside and re-set the circuit board. No use trying to put pants on because my arse had clamped shut and the butt plug out would not come out for neither love nor money. Relax, relax, relax. Oh shit, what if The Drummer comes home in the next 30 seconds, or my mother drops by for a visit, or whatever other embarrassing scenario could be conjured in my head? Relax, relax, relax. Finally I replicated the muscular contraction of taking a shit and the plug popped out with the assistance of my yanking hand. Bottom wiped, jeans buttoned and libido killed.
At least one of the photos turned out.
Last week I met Jekyll for a bout of night-time gymnastics in his car.
Before we caught up, he organised a tall, fair and hot-as-all-hell surprise. On the way to the meeting place he messaged that his bi playmate from the advertisement, Mr Hyde, had time to make a brief appearance. The already-fractious butterflies in my stomach did nervous backflips and threw in a few high-fives for good measure.
I arrived first and Jekyll was running late — it wasn’t my preferred order of events to be waiting for a stranger by the side of a road, but there was no time to fret as headlights flashed in my rearview mirror. A lean silhouette emerged languidly from the car, a handsome face and easy grin illuminated under the street light as I opened my door and stepped towards him. We exchanged smiles of recognition and a soft kiss on the lips as I mentally pulled the petals off a flower he likes me, he likes me not and hoped the last fell away with he likes me. Like Jekyll, he was more leagues more attractive in the flesh than the photographic medium. I don’t how I’ve engendered such good fortune but I won’t be taking a second for granted.
When we broke contact, he spoke first and said my pictures didn’t do me justice. My exterior self replied, “Thank you,” with a coy smile as my internal voice said he was probably this charming to everyone but who cares and I should lap it up, roll on my back and present my belly for a tickle like a purring kitten.
We chatted for a few minutes before Jekyll arrived. I observed them greeting and searched for hints of their physical past to manifest in their body language. They exchanged banter like a couple of pals talking after football training so I filled my mind with images of Jekyll on my left and Hyde on my right, barriers of fabric dropped on the floor and hands roaming, whispers evolving into urgent growling, a world of new sexual possibilities emerging.
I time-warped back to reality when Hyde said he had to leave. His body felt warm and firm beneath the soft cotton of his shirt when we embraced goodbye — I blushed when he said the ‘shrinkage’ from the cold had disappeared after we touched. I fought an urge to drop at his feet and slink myself around his ankles.
Hyde’s parting words were that Jekyll and I should go and have fun. We did. In a deserted car park. Attempting the adult version of teenage-era gropefests in the confines of a contoured passenger’s seat wasn’t the most comfortable experience but we made the most of limited time and space. I still have a bite mark on my backside.
