Jul 032017
 

I really am failing Mr. Texas. I introduce him to kink, meet a man who can finally meet my sex drive, and then I spiral into a deep depression. Sex isn’t as crucial as it once was…at least to me. Neither is kink…at least to me.

…But for Mr. Texas, I sparked something very primal in him and then ask him to constantly tame it, ignore it. I know exactly how he feels, it’s something that I have felt so frequently in my own life and sexual journey. It also doesn’t change the fact that for me, the timing, the mood, the passion, the spark just isn’t there. Mr. Texas doesn’t wait for me to initiate either – another oddity in my life, so I can’t blame him for not even trying.

Recently, it’s been hit or miss, I’m starting to have echoes of my old drive but it’s just as perverse as anything right now – at the most inconvenient of times. Twice that day I asked him with words and my body pressed against him to have sex with me, but he delayed me for one reason or another – all legitimate: it’s my body and mind that want what I can’t have.

I put myself to bed early one night but was restless, more wanting quiet than sleep. He respected my wishes, but when it was time for him to come to bed, he wrapped me in his arms. I was not in the mood for sex, but he wasn’t indicating either. Still, I felt bad that this passionate man was always just an unfair deal in my moods and drive. He caressed along my back and I thought how knife would feel as well, so I asked him to grab a knife and lay on his stomach. If nothing else, I could caress him and pay attention to him in a way that I knew he would also appreciate.

He did as asked without question; my fingers stroked his skin and I felt his muscles relax under my touch. Gripping the knife gently, I slid the cold flat blade up and down his back slowly, introduced his hot skin to the cold steel, moved down to his butt and thighs eventually, expanding my playground. Flat of knife became the sharpened tip that skimmed and scratched at the surface of his skin, up and down where the noise was more obvious than the marks. My other hand or mouth would occasionally caress in unison, but the focus was the knife.

I found myself fixated on the knife in the dim lighting, felt as though it was an extension of me. Applying more pressure with the tip, he took an intake of breath and I was hooked on his reaction, looking for my next fix. This time the tip pressed into his skin, created a triangular shadow as it compressed down, left a pink streak as the sharpened tip scratched down, the flat of the blade catching the light of the room and created a contrast of reflected light casting a path for which the darkened skinned tip followed.

It picked up every freckle, mark, smoothness of skin, and goosebumps of the man so trusting under my touch. It highlighted every place that I would mark, mar, love, caress, claim. Shadows were cast with his intake of breath, his slow exhalation, my heart and own breathing seemed to match his in the intensity of such close cognizance.

This was about the limit that was on the line in comfort with, so to get a further reaction I dragged the tip deeper against his skin. Red trails followed my blade now and he struggled to relax into it. I wasn’t having him relax into it, so softly I questioned how badly it would hurt if I cut an area I was in, how it would be just terrible if he bled, how he would think of me when the opened skin would touch something throughout his day or sting with his sweat. I feel fairly competent with a knife, and his trust was in that I would not cut him, but calmly putting the thoughts I had no intention of following through on was enough for him to panic slightly. He warned that it felt like I nicked him, muscles tensed where I was, he wanted me to go easier.

I used a soothing voice to tell him to relax and did not ease up, only leaned down and thoroughly kissed the swell of a cheek and side of a hip as I whispered that I needed to love my blank canvas. Stretching the moments until he felt the tip of the blade, I scratched red letters into white skin, a love letter unfolded along the curve of his body. Mr. Texas thoroughly believed that I would scar him, protested but didn’t color, so I traversed back up his back after I was done expressing my words and explained that I would never violate his consent, that I would not intentionally ever cut him, scar him, but that his mind and his body were mine in those moments and that I was in control of what he thought and felt.

It had been a long time since I had engaged as a top, longer still with any sort of dominance, and I felt like he needed some kink in his life. He also needed a reminder that actions are all the more powerful with words and feelings behind them, that a scene can be carried out without a break, that limits can be touched without being broken.

Apparently I also needed a reminder that when the knife is sheathed and I snuggle into his body, he is a man who learns a lesson, whose spark is easily lit, and who is intelligent enough to realize that I am no longer in control. Fingers wrapped around my throat, his body forced mine onto my back, knees sunk painfully deep into my thighs to spread them before his fingers sought my wetness and increased it to soaking. He plunged into my body, his fingers going from throat to the back of my head and gripped my head back, but I could sink my teeth into his shoulder as deeply as he sunk into my depths.

The following day, he would have a few letters still remaining though barely visible on a hip and a bruise on his shoulder, and I would smile with the memory of how we conquered each other.

Feb 092017
 

Febraury Photofest

My ankles were tied to the legs of a wooden chair, spreading thighs and exposing the lacy fabric thinly shielding my sex. Next, wrists were tied behind my back and rope ran across my chest in a harness that he used as a way to grab and maneuver me. He pushed me down onto a plush ottoman in front of the chair and caressed my butt through my panties, then I felt the cold prickle of a blade slide up my calf, my thigh, held my breath as it slid under the fabric and heard at the same time as felt the fabric being cut. He cut the shoulder straps of my tank top.

So fucking hot.

He slit the fabric up the side of the hip, and then the waistband. The fabric fluttered down, exposing the curves of my bottom. His fingers traced the curves and dipped into my pussy, fingered me to an orgasm.

He pulled me to sitting, sat himself down on the ottoman in front of me. He was naked. He pulled me back down slowly while kissing me until he laid back and his cock was at my mouth. It opened for him and I tasted his desire at the tip, slid lips down his hard shaft, sucked and licked my way down to impale him at the back of my throat. I bobbed as much as I could with hands tied behind my back. After a few minutes, and some groans of appreciation, he pulled me up by the rope around my chest and I was back to upright.

He clenched the fabric at the front of the panties and pulled it slowly, sliding the pieces of fabric between my wet slit and the chair. When it was fully removed, the knife appeared in his hand again and the bottom of my tank was cut, then a bit more, every time a bit gave and the fabric parted, it caused me to catch my breath a little. And then he took two sides and ripped the rest of the way until the rope stopped him. Then I was breathless while I moaned in appreciation. He pulled the remaining top half of the top down, revealing first one breast, which he kissed and caressed, and then another. He cut through the fabric and pulled it slowly to one side until I was naked except for the rope.

He untied my ankles and picked me up, kicking the chair out of the way. He laid my back gently down on the ground and tied my legs tightly ankle to thigh. He fingered me to an orgasm and my bindings felt even more tight into my thigh muscles as I shuddered. And then he bent me over the ottoman and fingered me again. teasing the tip of him against my entrance but not entering. He picked me up and laid me down on my stomach on the ottoman, liberally applying lube and then a glass anal plug. He entered me, creating such a full sensation with the anal plug and granted me an orgasm before withdrawing and rolling me over on the ottoman.

He slid deeply into my depths, his body weight causing my own to dig painfully into my wrists tied behind my back. It was a minor inconvenience in comparison to the tightening of pleasure. The angle that he was thrusting in and out of me was exquisite and rubbed all the right places. I moaned through two orgasms before I heard his accompanying groans of his own release.

Sep 062016
 

Wicked WednesdayThree weeks after he told me he didn’t want to be married to me anymore, I became the other woman as he was in a committed relationship to someone else.

Foolishly, we decided to try things that we hadn’t yet. Cutting, something that he did a month prior to our separation with someone else, was something that we had meant to try together but hadn’t yet – and something that I had never tried.

I had no idea he would go as deep as he did, had no idea that the rope and his fingers would pull the cuts wider than just the knife would do.

I had no idea that I would now be scarred…it’s possible for life, as six months later the cut marks are still incredibly evident.

At the time, I felt terrible about agreeing to even being marked by him, but I was desperate to keep him, desperate to still share new and different kinks with him, trusted him to cut me – despite how cruelly he asked for the separation.

Just this past month when I took a picture of the bite marks he gave me

Just this past month when I took a picture of the bite marks he gave me, the knife marks still evident

For months, I saw those marks and felt ashamed and weak about being the other woman, about being that desperate. I felt foolish.

And I was angry at him: immediately afterwards when I realized just how deep they were and months later when he told that he was glad that I still bore the scars so evident on my thighs.

I still took full responsibility for the marks – I went into the situation knowing the risks, consenting, and allowing them.

And now? More than six months later, (today to be exact,) our divorce is final. We are legally no longer married. Yesterday, we decided to stop thinking it would work out (I’ll get into that later, it was the most peacefully we have parted). We had roughly four weeks in seven months (with the majority of the time being this last month), trying to reconcile and overcome the past’s hurtful mistakes. I told him when we were together that the scars wouldn’t bother me as much if we stayed together, because they were marks from him.

But we didn’t stay together…I may always see the scars on my thighs as a moment of weakness, but it is something that I am learning to forgive myself for. I was in love with my husband and I will always love him in some ways. I made a mistake with allowing him to cut me, but it was just that – a mistake. One I can walk away from, learn from, and one that makes me human and deserving of forgiveness.

I don’t think it’s shameful, I don’t think I’m weak, I don’t view myself in a negative light with my actions of the past. It was a weak moment, just that: a moment, and one that I am healing from – both physically and emotionally.

I hope these marks do eventually fade; after all, my thighs have been scarred before with sharpened steel when I used to sword fight and after time they faded into nothingness.

But if they stay, they will not remind me of loss, nor sadness, nor a pathetic action. They will remind me that I have loved, that I can heal, and that I am strong. They will remind me that I can move forward. They will serve as evidence that my perspective can change, and that hope is a powerful emotion – and frankly there’s nothing wrong with that.

*If you read Minx’s comment on that post, Bloody Seconds, I am truly trying to take the advice to heart, and believe that I am ready to view the marks as such.

**Let me be very clear on this: I am not blaming him, nor have I, for these marks. I bear him no ill feelings and wish him the best in his future. 

Jul 122016
 

Wicked WednesdayShe was tied up by her lover to one of the posts on the narrow sidewalk, her wrists bound crisscrossed reaching for the bushy foliage above her head hanging from the pole. A blindfold was placed against her eyelids, which was actually a stolen towel used to clean tables from the fancy restaurant whose back door led to this alleyway; she felt as if she wasn’t even deserving of a proper blindfold suddenly and it stirred in her a feeling of anxiousness. Faintly the smell of cleaner wafted in her nostrils and she felt the dampness in places against her skin as he tied it tightly around her head. On top of the blindfolded fabric, bands of rope went over and then were tied behind the pole, her skull pressed into the metal and held firmly in place. She would not be able to turn her head or lean away; she would also not be able to talk apparently as he gripped the front of her throat and briefly caressed her pulse on either side with a thumb and fingers before creating another band of rope between her teeth, sharply it bit the sides of her lips as he tied it without mercy.

Rope cemented her spine to the cold and unforgiving pole, circled the curve in her waistline, being tied tightly that the reverberations added the sensations of butterflies panicking in her stomach and trying to escape; there would be no escape – that’s what the rope digging into her soft flesh utterly announced so concisely.

A spreader bar was attached to her ankles, the cuffs a soft leather that was tightened still to somehow a menacing feeling, with ropes being heard strung through the hooks of the cuffs and tied around her to the pole, anchoring her further. He took some loose ends then whipped her thighs and hips as he tied, the sting making her skin ring out in awakening sensations.

For the moment had just begun. She waited like that for what seemed a long time, becoming fidgety as she shifted her already aching feet inside of her incredibly uncomfortable high heels that he picked out for her to wear. She felt the cool air on her exposed cleavage that the tight dress, that he also chose, barely concealed. She strained to hear something, some clue of someone there, but only silence greeted her.

Where was her lover now?

And then a door somewhere, and another door somewhere else, as if on cue or some timer, creaked open. Shuffling of feet, high heels, the low hum of voices inside of rooms of distant places clamored at her brain, and she felt again a moment of panic.

Perhaps she imagined that she could feel heat of bodies as they moved towards her, but she undeniably felt the hands as they caressed her arms beside her bound head, or over her barely protected nipples, or as they brushed over the thin fabric hiding her thighs. She felt the steel of a knife slide under the straps of the dress at the collarbone and heard the rendering before feeling the fabric fall from her shoulders. She whimpered behind the rough fibers at her helpless mouth. As so many hands continued to caress her throughout her whole tense body, she felt the knife slide at the top of her cleavage and heard just as much felt the fabric part between her rounded breasts. Hands slid where the fabric gave way, pinched nipples painfully and she whined a little, before they released to grip the tops of the fabric. Again, her body felt while her ears heard the tearing of the flimsy dress down her body, her breasts completely bared, she sucked in her stomach as it was exposed – the waist rope little deterrent but only offering a brief pause as hands repositioned from over to under the binding, her hips felt the release of the tension of fabric that clenched there in protest since spreading her legs for the spreader bar, and then finally her tensed thighs. Despite the ragged bits of fabric clinging to the back of her body from the waist rope, she felt, and truly was, utterly naked and vulnerable now.

The hands about her became more aggressive, with slaps, spanks, pinches, gripped at her breasts, felt her excited wetness despite her anxiousness…and she was so excited, had asked for this from her lover, who had been carefully planning this moment just for her fantasy to come to life as her body now came to life amidst the strangers and friends’ bodies.

A dark alley, photographed by Molly Moore.And she would look back on the pictures of the seemingly exposed alleyway and the one he swiftly snapped of her tied in it as he walked away to give the sign for the people to enter, and feel a shiver of the pleasurable memory come back.

For even the narrow alleyway wasn’t as exposed as the pictures showed – it was blocked off by walls around the curve, being part of the outside area to a club, in historic Wilmington, where people could smoke – or elaborately play as it happened in this case.

But the appearance and how she felt, despite knowing all these things, didn’t change how exposed/vulnerable, how fearful/anxious/nervous/excited she was in the moment that she was tied.

Jun 142016
 

Mr. Texas took leave, a whole four days. I had every intention of corrupting my sweet darling vanilla. Just a little, just some baby steps.

So on the way to a rope social, with an hour drive ahead of us, I asked about limits. I like having meaningful conversations and getting to know my partners on car rides.

“Tell me if you’ve done these, are curious about it, soft limit – which maybe with some time and knowledge you may be willing, or hard limit – which is a hell no you wouldn’t consider it.”

He gave me that serious look, the one that I see on a daily visit. It’s the look I get when I warn him away, when I tell him we’re moving too fast, when he’s explaining why we should just go with the flow, or when I’ve had a bad day and he’s listening. That look, with his gorgeous hazel/green eyes and long eyelashes (seriously, why do more men have them?),  said to tread carefully right now.

“Blindfold.” I tried to think of a very non threatening thing to mention that most people have tried – of course my darling didn’t even do oral sex before me and thought that was kinky.

“Maybe I’ve done it. If I did, it was forever ago. Curious.”

“Great,” I flashed him a smile when he turned to look at me. “Then that’s up this weekend.” I had already brought a blindfold, and a few other things, to his house in preparation of his corruption. “Bondage.”

“Be specific.”

“Really?” we had already discussed my velcro cuffs, we were headed to a rope event. He turned and gave me a look. “Okay, rope bondage or velcro cuffs, tied ankles and wrists.”

“Curious.”

“Great, another for this weekend.” I paused, thinking of my intentions so I received all the consent I needed. “Hot wax.” I really didn’t think we would do this, but I brought a candle, just in case.

“On who?”

“Well, either of us. Me, if you’d like. You, if you’ll let me.”

“If you liked it, then I’d be willing on you. Soft on me.”

“Okay, fair enough. And maybe if you like doing it to me, I can convince you to try it with your body as well.”

Another look. Whatever, I’m used to them. It’s an overused look with me. Might as well push on. “I already tried the pinwheel on you. Up for it again?”

“Maybe.”

“Great, that’s a yes to me.” Look. Flashed smile in return. Rinse and repeat. “Nipple clamps.”

“Well I know you like them,” I’m not sure how he got that impression, but they are excellent for predicament bondage so I may have mentioned them a time or two or dozen.

“Gag?”

“Tell me the appeal for you.” So I did: I discussed how it was control and power play, how it was a more quiet mind and further surrender into just feeling. “Maybe. I could see that.”

Hmm, I didn’t pack a gag. Oh well, I can makeshift one. “Face sitting.”

“What? Why?” He didn’t sound enthusiastic about this one, yet the man loved going down on me. I was a bit surprised.

“What if you’re tied up and I want to have sex with you, but I’m not wet. Your mouth would help that issue so that I could have sex with you.”

“Okay, that would be fine.” I was a bit taken aback that it almost wasn’t.

“Vibrators. Clearly on me, as we’ve already discussed no penetration for you.”

“Hard limit. I just don’t see the point. I just…no.” He didn’t even hesitate.

What the heck?! I did bring a vibrator, as I wanted to give him the experience of both tying and being tied up, and I figured it would be a fun thing to bring. It was just a vibrator. His claiming hard limit took me aback on something that I viewed as so simplistic – but I needed to be understanding and respectful of his limits. Still, in a way that I simply can’t help, I was already thinking how to slowly introduce a vibrator into our sex life.

“Knife play?”

“Curious. You’ve talked about it so much. And here’s the thing – I don’t see the appeal but after hearing you discuss it or you approaching me with the idea so often, it’ll seem more normal, more something I’m willing to try.”

“Fantastic, then we’ll get along great, as long as you keep an open mind. I’ll expose you to a lot of different things.” I remembered my own journey into kink with my old fashioned husband – wondered briefly why I was trying this again with someone so lacking experience, but remembered that the more I was exposed to things, the more I wanted to try them and the experience was easier with someone beside me. I looked over at him and thought some people are just worth the patience.

I don’t believe that he’ll be my forever – I’m not even sure he’ll be my next month, but for this month he was mine and he was eager to experience new things with me.

And for now, that was enough…even if vibrators were a hard limit.

 

Jun 052016
 

2My husband wrapped the rope around my legs, practiced a few times to make sure the tension was good and not too tight. He fingered me to a few orgasms, those rough pummeling fingertips knowing exactly how to curl and almost making me squirt.

He used the wartenburg wheel around the exposed skin between the ropes as he positioned himself between my thighs, and then he slowly cut one sliver with Ka-bar knife closest to the knee on the left side, and as my sound began to change to concern and distress, he entered me. He slowly cut another sliver along the middle of the same thigh, slid deeper, cut another sliver of exposed skin on my thigh closest to my hip, all on the left side. He placed the knife down, smacked on the cuts, pulled them apart a bit with a hand that seemed to engulf my stinging thigh as his cock moved in and out of me.

He moved his fingers, further parting the skin to reveal the cut deeper, watched closely, and then moved to the other side.

My right thigh was cut between the ropes, in a space above the knee, then another even deeper, even slower. He positioned me to the side and roughly fucked me, brought me to an orgasm, whispering “one more” as he rotated me again onto my back and slowly sliced through my skin even deeper than before, parting the cut with his two hands. It felt as though his hands were tearing the cut further apart.

He gripped my bloody thighs tightly as he fucked me, the bloody palms occasionally touching and smearing red on other parts of me.

How did I feel about all of this? Nervous about cutting, and anxious. But he knew a pace that I could handle to go from one to the next activity. Still, the minute the knife was brought to skin to cut, I became oddly detached. It stung, it hurt, I winced, I wanted to cry to stop – but I did nothing. I allowed one carving after another against my porcelain skin bound tight in his rope. I only felt pleasure once he began cutting as he roughly fucked me on my side, but the knife was down for that.

I looked at the marks and hoped they weren’t permanent – after all, he had already left me.

He used the knife that was symbolic to us both of our beginnings into kink – it was the one I used on our second date where I straddled him in the car and put it against his throat. It was the one that had caressed and scratched at our fevered flesh through our years of sex.

It was the one that he had sharpened for another, for the woman he left me for, the first woman he cut intentionally, the steel smeared with her blood first on our knife, my bloody seconds.

When we were done, I commented how the rope was bloodied. “I know, I should’ve taken it off of you,” he said in a casual manner.

“Don’t forget separate the bloody rope. I’m definitely fluid bonded to it,” I asserted as he grabbed for it.

He placed it all in a bag, mixing it with his other rope. “I don’t even know which rope is which. I’m just going to stick this in a closet and forget about it for six months. Besides, I have others,” nonchalantly.

I knew him, I knew his lazy nature, and that the rope would be touching her – now she would get bloodied seconds, and possibly other women. There was no way he would hang that much rope for six months – no way he would get out his other rope he hoped to sell and condition and do up the ends to use it. No, that rope would touch others.

What was my responsibility to her? Did I warn her? But he told me that I wasn’t to say a word to her, that I was the other woman in this until he decided if he wanted to continue our marriage, and I wanted our marriage, I wanted him, and she may not believe me anyhow. Why would she trust his wife over him?

“Besides which,” he continued with the same careless tone,”it’s your blood. I know where you’ve been. It’s not some stranger’s.”

He wanted me to wait, hidden away and waiting to be used, like that rope that soaked in my blood without a tell-tale sign unless closely inspected, while he had a woman he claimed wouldn’t know or think any better.

She would possibly be wrapped around that rope, around a horrible deceit.

…and I felt so guilty I was a part of it.

*Written three weeks after he left me for his girlfriend. 

**This was written months ago. I still bear the scars of the knife, you can see it when I wear shorts, skirts, or a bathing suit. It reminds me of my desperation, of how pathetic I was, how I was the other woman. I cannot view these scars positively and they are so prominent so I can’t ignore them either. 

May 122016
 

Questions found from Insatiable Desire:

Day 5: What was your first kinky sexual experience?  If you haven’t had one yet, talk about what you hope to have happen.

This is so close to Day 4’s question. I can’t remember my first kinky sexual experience, besides it was probably the moment that I brought a knife into the bedroom – but that didn’t seem odd. It seemed comparatively tame considering my then-boyfriend and I were just as likely to bring in swords as we both taught and did sword fighting pretty much daily at the time. Swords seemed a bit cumbersome, but knives seemed just right for the moment.

With him I also experienced bondage, being dominated, primal sex, and a vibrator. Now that I’m thinking about it, I guess while I can’t recall a moment, I can at least point the finger towards a person. He was an amazing lover, and the first person that I (somewhat) opened up to on what I desired.

We’re still really good friends and see each other every couple of years, as distance and time allows. I’m planning a trip to see him this summer, as a matter of fact.

 Posted by at 7:53 am
May 012016
 

img_1618I hate seeing my reflection right now. 

Have I mentioned that my husband left me for someone over ten years younger and thinner?

It doesn’t help, either, that her looks are one of the only positive things about her he speaks of. So, he left me for superficial reasons? (I realize just how stupidly I simplified his reason for divorce, but sometimes the mind drifts to such ridiculousness.)

I’ve never felt the need to compare until just recently, and I don’t know if it’s because he constantly does or if I’m truly insecure all the sudden.

When he asked to FaceTime recently, and I stupidly agreed, the first thing he mentioned are how “looks aren’t everything”…an obvious backhanded compliment – he doesn’t like how I look but he still loves me.

And now I’m dating, where I feel that I am judged by appearances first, everything that matters second.

It doesn’t help that I stress eat and have been putting on weight for months, or that I was so busy moving that I haven’t exercised in months.

I’ve never been concerned about looks much – still don’t do my hair and make up most days, and the mirror and I have never been close. But recently, I’m shocked when I do actually see my reflection. I see the exhaustion under my eyes, the scars from where I let him cut me and forever mark me as the other woman, the dried and veiny hands from living life, the stretch marks from babies. the gray hair that I’ve had since I was twenty that is now dominating my head.

I should embrace hands that have held life being born and life passing through its final moments, marks that claim that I have given carried and given birth, hair that will grow so that a lover can pull it and curls naturally in humid climate, eyes that have seen such beauty…the knife marks, no, that I am horribly saddened and ashamed by, I can’t even put a positive spin on that.

I know I should view myself more kindly, but I’m not. I am an enemy to my reflection instead of a best friend to my person. I used to not care about stripping naked, now I care very much.

I would love to blame my ex husband for giving yet another thing to feel self-conscious about, but the truth is that I am responsible for this and only I can change what I view in the mirror.

 

Sinful Sunday
Apr 092016
 

Sinful Sunday

For the letter H, for the #AtoZChallenge, I am using some lines and a picture that taken during some hot moments.

Some thoughts I shared with a rope partner on what I found hot:

 

I like how you always grip my hair, how your hand is often around my neck. I like how it centers me, reminds me that I am not in control and just need to surrender.

When I was on hands and knees and asked: “can I?”. I almost winced at how I asked “can” rather than “may” but at that moment I wasn’t sure if I could, your permission gives me the actual ability by this point.

“Get in lingerie,” you tell me, and I throw on the silky slip of fabric. You acknowledge that being naked felt natural by this point in the scene and now shyness overcomes me as I get dressed in the silk.

DSCBLOG

The utter possessiveness at times – you arm wrapped around my body; I dug into your arm with fingers and you increased the pressure of my back tight against your chest, your face pressed to the side of my own, breath in ear, hand against throat.

The smell of my own desire after you pleased me standing, or of the condom after our bodies separated.

*The fantasy when the knife runs across his skin and I straddle him, grinding, my hair draped like a curtain, my control and his body at my whim, his noises instead of my own.

**This is a fantasy as this rope partner didn’t allow any control at any point, but I shared my fantasy with him anyhow.  

 Posted by at 9:51 am