Dec 212017

Masturbation Monday badge - smallI am very orgasm hungry, I think it rules my drive more than the wanting sex (unless I’m ovulating, that trumps anything).

I am incredibly lucky that I orgasm easily, it lends itself to how greedy, how needy I can be. The first orgasm is the longest work and hardest to maintain – it is also often the weakest. All it does is feed my craving for another. My body is tenser, tighter, wanting and willing to work towards the second orgasm – which is always just on the horizon, easy to view and not hard to slide into.

The catch, of course, is that the second orgasm makes it easier to come harder and faster. And the third makes me far more greedy than the first. On and on my body goes, wanting the next – it’s not always that the subsequent ones are harder nor even better, fireworks do not suddenly explode in orgasm splendor; but the more that I orgasm, the easier it is for me to reach another one. When every nerve is sensitive and feels pleasurable, it’s a challenge to not pursue that pleasure.

It’s also why I can orgasm in such a multiple of ways: after the first one through what almost always needs to be obtained by penetration, other avenues to orgasm open up. I have come from just rubbing between my lips, from anal stimulation (or sex), from nipples, from pain like spanking, or slapping, from fist thrumming against my butt or thighs, the knuckles sinking through muscles and hitting what feels like bone.

I have orgasmed from soft sensations like feathers or sheets, from cold sensations like fans or even cold porcelain, from heat like melted wax or a hot breath pressed just right against my hot skin and brushing its way past more sensitive zones.

Teeth, something I normally don’t appreciate on myself, feel amazing as they sink into my skin at the climax. I become rougher in my pursuit of pleasure, more aggressive, my hips thrust up, I squeeze the person involved, my nails or teeth dig in to the point of marking. I beg, I plead, I become desperate to hit the next wave that is always just a sensation away. I sweat, I moan, I grunt – there is nothing sexy or coy about me at this point, I looked wrecked, flushed red and blotchy in places since I am curse to be pale – even my skin tells the tale of my madness.

I can have a moment’s respite, a person can promise to not make me come anymore, but a glance of their fingertips, a breath washing across my skin, and I am primed and pumped for the smallest touch to make me melt and meld all over again. It’s why I can seem tireless one minute in the chase of an orgasm and asleep after a moment’s respite.

I can also have after quakes of orgasms, my muscles inside so clenched that they rub against themselves  and create the friction needed, or suddenly the tension releases and the relaxation of the muscles inside make me shiver in a tiny pleasurable way.

But here is why I think that I am more orgasm driven than sex driven – I don’t need sex to be in this condition. Fingers, a toy, a mouth will work just as well – and even that may just be for the first or second only as I need the penetration.

Also, I can go for months without sex or masturbation and not be bothered in the slightest, as shown during my time as a military spouse separated from my husband – it didn’t mean that I didn’t miss him or miss pleasure, but I didn’t need it, and if he wasn’t around, didn’t feel the urge to pursue an orgasm (only exception was again when I was ovulating strongly, then I masturbated for the day or two).

This works well if, in my relationship dynamic, a boundary is no sex – as was the case with Mimir and is with The Wanderer.

There is a negative to this, however; I am more vulnerable, more agreeable, less verbal, less rational and more easily manipulated after multiple orgasms. It’s why orgasm play – where the goal is multiple orgasms – tends to be something I won’t engage in unless I trust the person. I also appreciate how eventually my partner(s) stop – whether they are tired or they deem I am, as with more orgasms I am less likely to be aware that I need a break, that my body is sore or dehydrated.

Sep 082016

*Time to return back to Mr. Texas…after all, I never did finish telling this chapter of my life, the drafts waiting because my ex husband didn’t wish to see the story.  

Mr. Texas is extremely ticklish. Everywhere, all the time.

I can’t handle not having my way with his body, how even giving him head is a challenge because while it feels good, it also tickles him – so he says, and he stops me quite a bit.

Not a thing I’m used to.

He made the mistake of telling me: “you just can’t go soft,” referring to the kisses I was trying to trail around his chest.

“Oh I can go hard,” I smiled down at him and then bit him right above the nipple where his chest muscle gave me plenty to sink my teeth into.

“That’s not what I meant,” he protested, so I clenched down tighter.

“Nope,” I released him, looked at my imprints in his flesh, and embraced it fully. “Too late, I’m playing and you’re my chew toy.” I leaned down and licked softly over the divots, my tongue washing against the redness, listening to his moan and smiling into his skin with satisfaction. I bit down next to the mark, staking new territory, and alternated nibbling and sucking in an arc across his chest muscle.

I could tell he didn’t know if he liked it or not; pain of any sort in the bedroom was a slow process, but towards the center of his chest he gave every indication of liking it a bit more, so I bit down harder in those focused places.

My hand gripped the front of his throat softly, a presence felt and not threatening, my forefinger and thumb moved to the jaw line and pushed his head to the side. I laid half my body on top of him and bit down where neck and shoulder met towards the back. His shoulders came up in defense but I bit down harder and made a noise that argued, my hand a bit tighter to his throat.

He relaxed under me. “My chew toy,” I whispered as I nibbled and sucked along the dip of his neck from shoulder to ear.

“Don’t leave a mark,” he warned.

“I won’t, I’m pretty good at going hard and not,” I assured him in between nips and bites. I alternated the sensations, making his neck a temporary and thoroughly loved red before switching sides.

I loved listening to his sounds, his sharp intake of breath, the way his shoulders and neck rolled and stretched under my mouth, the way his hands fought the urge to push against my body to remove me and ended up gripping me and pulling me closer intermittently.

I moved lower. “Time to see if you like this bit,” I breathed on the head of his cock and he sat up. I laughed and gripped his thigh, my nails digging in. “Relax. I’m teasing, I wouldn’t,” I reassured as one hand pushed on his marked chest to have him lay back, the other hand menacingly pressing nails into his flesh and muscle on the inside of his thigh if he didn’t obey.

He laid down and my tongue swept across the fleshy top, tasted his precum, before swirling haphazardly around the head and under the ridge. My mouth didn’t even come close to closing in on him – I wouldn’t bite but I wouldn’t please either.

I moved to the inside of his thigh, my tongue replacing my nails and tasting the slightly metallic taste of where nails truly imprinted. I was gentle and caressed a wet trail, leaned back a bit and blew some cold air on the reddened divots, so small they were barely discernible. My hot mouth crashed over the cold area and I sucked and nibbled, and when he moved too much, bit along the inside of his thighs.

Gently, I moved to his balls and took one in my mouth, rolling the thicker part with my tongue. He arched and gasped and I increased the pressure just slightly before moving to the other.

Things after all have to be equal, I figured.

So his other thigh also got treated to my rough administrations.

I straddled him and slowly positioned the tip at my entrance as I nibbled at his neck again. “Just the tip, that’s a fun game, right?”

He groaned and tried to slam his hips up and force the issue, but under my body I felt the tension and moved with him, keeping contact but adjusting so he slid along my wet slit in case I miscalculated how far he would rise.

I bit down hard on his neck. “Stay down. This is my game, chew toy.”

Again, I positioned him rolled my hips so that the thickness of his head rotated around my entrance, barely sliding in. I watched his face as I felt my own sensitivity and the torment that I viewed encouraged me to delay my own sensations towards pleasure when his frustration was far more intriguing.

My darling Mr. Texas has been learning a thing or two, however, and after a few minutes, when he had obviously had enough, he gripped my hair and arched me painfully back, slamming up into me to the hilt.

He kept his painful pressure in my hair as I wildly rode him, my body clenched and drenched around his own orgasm.

May 222016

Story of what I thought was a random pick up guy here. I had a long night with this guy.

He picked me up and bounced me on top of him standing. The muscles in his arms bulged and I gripped his broad shoulders to balance, my legs not quite wrapping around his waist – a military body is truly a work of art at its peak.

It was in this position, where he was essentially in the driver’s seat over the sex, that he curiously asked: “If you wanted to take control, could you?”

I thought for all of a few seconds. “Yes.” I was fairly confident of my skills and abilities, thought about what little I knew of random pick up dude and knew he wouldn’t hurt me intentional – which always gave me an advantage.

He obvious viewed me as someone he could just throw ideas at, as he had already asked to take a video of us.

He lowered our bodies to the bed, the mattress firm at my back before I used the strength of my leg to gently kick into his chest; he ended up laying on his back with his head barely missing a dresser, surprised at the action.

I don’t think he got kicked much in bed.

I was on top of him instantly, my small but still effective hand around his throat; my thumb dug into the side of his jaw to position his face to the side and teeth bit down where neck meets shoulder. He groaned, whispered to not leave a mark, tried to grasp me – but not to hold me to him, rather to remove me.

So it appeared he wanted a fight, not just me in control. Always a bit trickier, as he was undoubtedly stronger and I am not going to hurt a random man in my quest for control.

My hand tightened on his neck, fingertips pressing in, my teeth sunk into the muscle on his chest, one knee dug into his upper arm while my other hand’s nails pressed into his sensitive nerves along the other upper arm. There’s an advantage to being small in that I am quick and my legs can easily be used in the same region as my arms. Also, being a rope bottom has taught exactly what part of the arms are full of exposed nerves.

“Jesus you’re incredible,” he whispered as his body relaxed into what I was doing. My mouth turned into kisses as I felt him submit and relax his body into the mattress; one hand moved to roam and explore his hardness, stroking him. And then he gave a tell tale sign of tensing, and my hand around his throat was ineffective as he pushed against it and my unwillingness to grip too hard against a pulse or windpipe with a man I just met, so I used my forearm and pressed more to hold his neck down, My leg began to be useless as well as he pivoted to the side a bit, but my free hand stopped stroking him and nails again clawed and gripped the flesh and muscle on his chest right under the arm.

…I’m certainly not going to hurt his cock – we hadn’t discussed that bit.

“Stay down,” I ordered, my forearm pressed a bit more, my nails threatened to dig even further. He complimented me some more, asked for a kiss, and after some time of me stroking and kissing him, I relaxed my stance on top of him and allowed us to be rolled to where he was on top again.

I should have known he would different from the other random hook up guys – I had actually kissed him and he had a whole list of things he wanted to do with me after this first night.

He slid into my depths as his hands took hold of my ankles and he positioned them up his body. I hooked my ankles on his shoulders and arched my hips even further up to take him in deeper. After some time, he held one of my feet and sucked on my toes

…another first, and one I didn’t see coming – if I had I would have stopped it as I hate my feet being touched in anything other than a massage. I wasn’t about to kick in his teeth, though the urge was strong. I simply waited until it felt safe to remove my toes from his mouth without hurting him and then changed our position so it was no longer an option.

When we were finally done, when he finally found his release as I rode him some time later, he stood up and walked to the mirror to inspect his body and supposedly the damage done. “You weren’t kidding, no marks,” he remarked in awe over his neck.

It’s a source of pride to me that I can go pretty hard on a man’s neck and not leave marks.

He rotated and saw his back, the side of his chest where my raked nails raised red. “I didn’t promise I wouldn’t scratch you,” I laughed and he smiled, uncaring of those marks.

He wanted to see me again, the next day. I told him I was busy so he pushed to see me when he got back from a deployment. I was hoping he would forget all about me by that point and told him that I wouldn’t see him again.

Still, he’s sweet and texts and checks in with me, so maybe we’ll be friends.

..and it turns out that despite my intentions of him being a one-nighter, he ended up being more. Turned out he lived in my town I just moved to after the divorce and he was all the way across the country for training before a deployment. Such a small world.
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Apr 072016

For my A to Z Challenge, for the letter F, I’m submitting this one for Fierce: a little ball of tied tiger.  

“There are three kinds of rope bottoms I’ve observed”, began Mimir.

“One is the silent one who doesn’t know how to process what is going on. They tend to be new and are just busy analyzing and deciding.

One is the zen one who becomes very calm and accepting of the ropes, who blisses out inside of them.

One also finds calm in the ropes, but it’s a very tentative zen. Poke them with a stick and they are liable to struggle and make you regret it.

You are the third. You’re very reactionary. A little ball of tied tiger who is by no means tame, more like hypnotized by the ropes. So I need to keep a pace to keep you hypnotized, to lure your calm, to keep your mind in only the present instead of the possibilities.”

 Posted by at 8:36 am
Feb 222016

February Photofest Badge 2016Evie Vane, who I had the pleasure of meeting in person at a Rope Bottom’s Round-table, writes Rope Bottoming’s Dark Side.  She was asked what is the dark reason that she does rope, as there is almost always a dark reason. She ponders the question, sees her dark reason, and can’t stop seeing it. Her friend gives her brilliant advice of dancing with it again. She goes into how freeing she felt after that. It’s a great article, check it out.

She also mentions that this is something of a shadow. In Jungian psychology, the shadow’s denial or unawareness makes it darker. It may be the primitive animal instincts, but it tends to be more creative, representing “the true spirit of life as against the arid scholar” (Wikipedia).


Edited from photo series, one was posted 8-15-15

I’ve never been asked this question, and feel like it needs a great deal of thought. Some things I feel like I’ve discussed, things I would view negatively in myself in any other situation other than BDSM, such as passivity, controlled, mindless, objectified, and exhibited (a lot of this I’ve discussed in just one post Watching Me).

I strongly dislike passive people, it is incredibly opposite to how I perceive myself (and how others also think that I am not passive) and I have little patience in accepting situations that are not by my design. Yet, there is some part of myself that just wants to accept what is happening to me without resistance or responsive action. Not only is this prominent in rope, it also plays a part in my kink of being unconscious during part of sexual touching (either woken up from sleep or coming to after a blood choke). Being so compliant and submissive is the path of least resistance that does not come easy to my personality, but one that is so peaceful; rope helps me find that peace. (I just recently became aware of my acceptance towards passiveness in my negotiations with Mimir.)

Controlled is something that I instantly feel the almost teenage instinct to rebel against, and yet in rope, I have simply no choice. I am bound, I can fight or struggle all I want – I am still being forcibly controlled. The power dynamic of this is incredibly erotic to me, and also can be pointed towards another kink of mine with consensual non consent (that I haven’t engaged in very far). Someone else is in control and I am powerless to do anything about it, even if I so desired.

Mindless is something that I first became aware of in sex and kink, as my brain is always going, and often in negative directions. I pride myself on my intelligence, my ability to multitask and juggling so much, yet I need a break. So to switch my brain into just focusing in on the moment is something that I view as a positive and why I first began exploring kink. In rope it needs to be a very challenging or painful rope, as the physical needs have to override the constant chaos that is my brain. I love having fun rope experiences, and my husband is fantastic at providing very comfortable rope rides, but I also love how we’re exploring (and I’m exploring with others) more painful (or orgasm play – that works too) rope.

Objectified is prevalent in most of the rope I do, mostly because I’ve been a practice bottom more than a person bottoming in a scene. When someone is learning, they don’t need me to react or connect to me – they just need constructive feedback (like a test dummy). During a class or practice, people only really talk to the rope top, I am pretty much ignored. It was something I became aware of on the edge of my consciousness when people would see me suspended and talk about me as if I wasn’t there. As much as this may sound negative (and it annoys me at times), I am so respected and cherished by my husband that it feels somewhat freeing to treated impersonally from time to time. It is a huge turn on to an object of pleasure where a man is only in it for himself and what he wants sometimes; it is sexy to be molded and positioned in rope to how they want me for their artistic vision.

Exhibited could be a darker source of pride perhaps? While I do not view myself as an exhibitionist, there is something rewarding about being admired or viewed. I like to hear compliments of how well I did, how lovely I looked, how I am skilled at being in positions in rope. I like being talked about in a positive way. I’ve discussed how I don’t get the duality of strength and vulnerability without being in public, but that is no longer the case: Mimir and my husband both have tied me now and put me on display for just their view (and it’s very uncomfortable and yet strangely erotic for me).

Are there darker reasons? I’ve discovered there are since writing this, and I’ll keep attempting to shed light on more of my shadows since there are so many new ones since being separated – it’s a bit scary to me and one I need to process through.

What about you, what are your shadows?

 Posted by at 10:46 am
Oct 082015

Written for an inspired competition from Sex Blog of Sorts.

*Contains violent acts and what could be considered consensual non consent

She came to me all dressed up, flawless hair and makeup, as if she knew that the destruction of such well kept looks would tempt me even further. Her lipstick matched her nail polish. Almost cocky, she said it was the color “O”, as if it was a demand that she would be getting.

My friend walked into the room at that moment and grabbed her arms, forcing them behind her. Coming from behind, her eyes widened in shock and her mouth made a little O as she cried out. I could smell her fear and hear her panicked breathing as I strode across the room. I thought perhaps she would cry out, but she seemed to revive herself and stared at me instead.

It was all the permission I needed. While my friend tied her wrists behind her, making her proud chest stand out, I took out my knife and made she that her wide eyes focused on it before pressing the blade to her throat, drawing it along her collarbone, and slashing down the center of her dress. She wore no bra, and steel traced the pale globes and trailed down her stomach.

I wondered if she breathed, as her body was as still and silent as the room.

My friend kneed her behind the knees and she kneeled down in front of me, her beautiful lipstick still perfectly in place. I handed my friend the knife so he could strip away her dress from off her arms and took the pad of my thumb and smeared the color across her face, into a grotesque clownish smile.

I went to take off my belt and she must’ve thought that my pants would follow, as she licked those stained lips, whether in anticipation or nervousness I could have cared less. I would have been happy with either reaction. I moved behind her, my friend moved in front, and it was his fly that came down. She turned her head, but he grabbed her chin and pressed into her jaw, telling her to open.

My belt came down upon her back. She jerked, her body instinctively moved away from the impact and her mouth came around my friend’s erection. I warned her to be good to him, as I eased the force of the belt upon her skin and kept a rhythm that would keep her warm but not struggling. When he pulled out of her mouth, I crisscrossed her creamy hue with harsh red shades. Her body tried to move away from me, her back arched and her knees crawled a few paces.

She still said nothing.

I yanked her hair, forced her back into her kneeling position, as he slapped her breasts and twisted her nipples painfully. She cried out, the cry sounding more like the “O” she wanted than a plea. His hands explored and pushed her against me, offering no solace for the direction that she had chosen.

I pulled her up and pulled the material out of my pocket, using it as a gag. I smiled at the picture of the colored lips on either side of the material. Once tied off, my hand went to her tied hands and she squeezed. It was all the encouragement I needed.

My friend kicked at her calves until she spread her legs and our hands took turns striking her pale supple flesh, his still on her breasts and mine on her thighs and ass. With her legs spread, I could smell her arousal; see the faint wet line through her fabric. I bit into her ass with need and she tensed under my teeth, her groan mingled with the slaps still being inflicted in front of her.

I moved around in front of her and he began untying her wrists, as if we both knew that she needed to lie down. I yanked down her undergarment, fully revealing her. As I straightened, I relished seeing the mascara trailed tears mingling with smeared lipstick and gag.

She was beautiful.

I reached down and propelled the palm of my hand to connect with her lower lips. She moaned and her eyes shut, and I smacked her again and again until my own hand stung in her juices.

She was so wet.

We moved her to the bed and her gaze was frantic with need, with fear of the unknown. Her body glistened with sweat and painted in reddened marks. My knees parted her thighs and I dragged my fingernails against her red welted lower lips, the color almost perfectly matching her lipstick and nails, pressed my fingers deep against her plump folds, pressed the pain deeper. She screamed and my friend untied her gag as if to hear the musical sound of it, bent down and kissed her salty stained tears.

I wondered if her mouth tasted delightful and alarmed; she smelled it.

My fingers slipped inside her depths as he fucked her face, our movements eventually synching into the same pattern, his relentless hips and guttural groan spurring my fingers on, my other hand raining down on her thigh. She drenched my fingers when she choked, whimpered and mewled.

As he left her, I flipped her over and entered her. She begged, pleaded, cried for her lipstick’s namesake. I pounded into her, bit into her side. He flogged her back as I tugged my mouth away. I ordered her to tighten, to come around me, and she obediently did as she was told.

As I pulled away and she crawled into my friend’s lap, I saw the beginnings of her bruises. I knew she would be pleased with the results, would marvel over them for days.

She had asked for this brutality and beast that I was, I was more than happy to give it to her.

Mar 122015

He was leaving, again. I only got to see him for an hour on his dinner break from duty, and I wanted to make that hour count. I got dressed up; he always loves my style,and the compliments from strangers I get when we go out. I lit candles in our room. I was going to carve out time for sex no matter what. The next day he was leaving straight for the field for another week, this was the only snippet of time I had.

My sex drive is quite a bit higher than his, but I’m working on it.

He’s good at romance. Incredibly good at romance. When I pulled him to the room he insisted on adding to the atmosphere by putting on a playlist full of love songs. He spun me in his arms and held me close. He told me the sex is an amazing thing, and we would get to it, but right now we were making memories, and those were more important. We danced slowly to the music, our eyes locked on each other, and my heart yearned for him more.

He finally took a step back, and my fingers danced straight to the buttons of his shirt. He smiled indulgently at me, and ceded to my silent suggestion. I didn’t make it fast. I kept the romance, unbuttoning slowly, kissing what I exposed at each step. His fingers strayed up into my hair and he pulled me to his mouth with insistence. I couldn’t wait any longer.

We finished getting undressed, and met in the middle of our bed, facing each other. My heart pounded and my fingers itched to touch. He wrapped me in his arms and pulled me down. We kissed with intense desire, the pull for more building. We’ve never been good at pure vanilla. He suddenly grabbed my hair in a tight grip, directing my head down. I eagerly wrapped my lips around his shaft and hungrily pulled him farther and farther into my mouth, the pressure of his hands encouraging me to take more and more. I was choking on his rock hard dick like a good girl. Saliva began to pool from my mouth, dripping down his shaft as my mouth went up for a bit of air. My eyes were tearing and he moaned his approval.

A bit more pressure, he wanted to control, to have me go deeper, try harder…

That’s about the time my gag reflex kicked in with a vengeance. I hadn’t ate all day. I was feeling nauseous on and off throughout the day, and that little fact escaped my notice in my exuberance of having a steamy night.

I had taken all that I could… I couldn’t stop my bodily reaction. All I could do at the point was to say “oh my God, oh my fucking God”…

I might insert here, that the thought flashed through my mind that suddenly it seemed I had a catch phrase for fail sex, it was always the same. However my benedictions had yet to yeild any miraculous assistance.

I didn’t know what to do, it took him a moment to realize what had happened, and his reaction was quite similar to mine. ” Oh God, it smells like vodka!” Whoops, I HAD ingested something that day- a drink with cotton candy vodka. The only retort I had to that entirely accurate proclimation was “at least we haven’t had dinner yet.”

There was so much, on him, on me… Mortified. My most hated emotion. I ran to the bathroom and frantically tossed towels to him to clean up. I brushed my teeth and used a mouth rinse. Then I used another, just to be extra safe. My mind was going a mile a minute. I finally got done cleaning up and just sat on the chair to my vanity, afraid to go back into the room.


My legendary curse of fail sex continued to plague me. Finally cleaned up, he came to the doorway and took in my forlorn expression and the minty smell of every oral hiygene product I had in my bathroom. He pulled my to him, and did the ultimate reassurance that everything was OK: he kissed me.

Suddenly his hand was fisted in my hair as he shoved me out to the bedroom. I jumped, startled. He yanked and directed, and pushed me to the floor. “You’re not getting out of this that easily.” My heart rate jumped. I was paralyzed with the unexpected. He shoved me onto my stomach, ground my face into the carpet, and slide easily inside of me with the gushing arousal he invoked in me. He thrust deep inside of me, causing all of my muscles to jump. He whispered in my ear “You can struggle if you want, it won’t do you any good”…

Finally. I’d always wanted consensual nonconsensual. I wanted primal, violent, sensual brutality. It was something we’d negotiated in the past. He had my full approval. With his taunting statement, a sudden rush of adrenal surged through me. My arousal at this point was gushing. A hard slap to my face, still grounded in the carpet, and suddenly my fight got stronger. I ripped my arm out of his grasp, the whole time he was still thrusting; he mocked my efforts. My bucking and squirming only intensified, and aided, his thrusts. Another slap. His elbow was now holding my head in place as he grasped both of my wrists. “You’re mine. Don’t forget that.”

I melted. My body straining now to help rather than resist. I got lost in his complete domination of me. I was his. I belonged wholly to him. Nothing else mattered at that moment. He knows me. He knew that I needed this. The penance, the brutality, the ownership. The mortification and feelings of embarrassment and shame were no longer with me. He had stripped them from me, strike by strike, and thrust by thrust. There was no room in my head for any thought beyond him; beyond accepting that I was wholly in his hands, and I was safe.

His hand was around my neck, restricting my breath, he squeezed and the tears came forth with his pressure. At the point where I desperately needed breath, he released me. I gulped in air as I felt the shuddering of his body as he throbbed in his orgasm. He collapsed on top of me. Feeling the heat of the blows across my body that he had dispensed with stinging accuracy. He gripped my hair again and pulled my head up to his, he gave me one final kiss, gentle now, signaling our return to the world. He squeezed me, nipped at my shoulder, playfully kissed my ear…

Then he got up and threw the sheets, covered in the disaster of earlier, into the wash. I kept apologizing profusely. At the same time that I was groveling for forgiveness (that I didn’t need), I was also whining quite profusely at the luck and lamenting the shear volume.

Finally he looked at me and said “You know, it could’ve been worse, after all, I was the one with vomit running down my ass…”

Feb 022015

His feet were digging painfully into my ankles, spreading them as far as I could go. It would bruise. So would my wrists. We were both laying on our backs, just mine was on top of him. With both arms forced behind my back, pinned between his chest and anchored with an elbow and hand, the other hand was free.

He had the dammed wand in it. He started it off low, looping his knee over my thigh to hold my leg, using his heel to push it against my sex when he decided to torment- my predicament. It took him the better part of an hour to get me here.

We had began this torture when we went to bed. I was already naked, he laid on the bed fully clothed. “Take off your clothes,” I told him, leaning over to kiss him.

“Are you telling me what to do?” he asked. I stroked down his chest, ran my hand under his shirt and tried to raise it. His hand clamped down on mine.

Wrestling for him to get naked commenced. It was an unfair advantage he had – I was going to his clothes and trying to undress him, he was trying to pin me.

I don’t ever play nice. My goal is to hurt as much as possible without permanently hurting him, while his goal is make sure I don’t hurt myself and pin me.

And pinning me is never easy. He commented, “why did I have to marry such a feisty wife?”

“Your life would be boring without it,” I responded while my elbow was digging into the front of his neck, trying to choke him.

He managed to push me off of him, flipped me onto my stomach and used his weight (double my own) to subdue me macro 023for a brief time. He fingered me while I shouted he was cheating and then forgot to fight back in my pleasure, and suddenly he was suddenly his cock was inside me. “I still have my clothes on,” he leaned forward and boasted in my ear as I kicked out uselessly.

“You can’t do that,” I denied even though he was. I grabbed the side of the bed and tried to slide out from under him. He reached around the side of the bed and the wand went flying beside our pillows. I groaned. Then, he tried to grab my arms to keep them still. I slipped out one, got my hand around his windpipe and gripped, struggled to my knees and rotated out from under him. He bent my arm away from his throat, hugged around me and flipped us both over until we were both on our backs.

“If you say that I win, that you are my fuck trophy, I’ll take off my clothes,” he panted, trying to subdue my flinging legs and arms. He especially dislikes my legs, as I will kick him for all I am worth.

My legs were the first captured, ankles wrapped around ankles and forced my legs spread. I tried to squirm and elbow him. He captured the elbow and yanked it behind my back as far as my shoulder would allow, using his chest to slow my movements. Next went my other wrist, his hand clamping down on wrist and arm and binding them together between us.

I was pinned. With his free hand, he began the wand on low, softly and slowly stating again, “say ‘you win, I am your fuck trophy,’ and I will fuck you,”. Oh, to admit defeat is such a predicament to me!

“No,” I gasped, shaking my head, watched the wand drop lower, his hand barely reaching pelvis, bucked my hips so that it couldn’t stay between my legs. That’s when one leg looped, and his heel pushed the wand close to me, the hand pulling it up and down, the heel pushing it against.

“Cum,” he ordered, and as I did, he moved the wand away from me. “Now tell me, ‘you win, I am your fuck trophy,'”. I shook my head no, and heard the buzzing getting faster. Once the wand was on a faster level, he did the same thing again, urging me, “say it. Say it.”

I shook my head no as my body convulsed around the vibrations between my legs. “You do,” I conceded.

The wand moved up and away from me. “Say it, and I’ll stop.” A long pause while I warred with myself. “Say: ‘you win, I am your fuck trophy.'”

With the wand gone, I refused to say it and struggled fruitlessly. The buzzing became much louder.

“Oh, do you hear that? It’s as high as it’ll go. Say: ‘you win, I am your fuck trophy.'”

I shook my head no, watched in fascinated horror as it slowly descended towards my body, the hand placed it between and the heel pressed it close to my wet skin. The vibrations roared through my body and it felt like too much, far too much. “You do,” I panted. He wasn’t falling for another reprieve. “You win,” sucked in great, deep breaths, rode a crest of pleasure, make it stop shouted in my head, “I…I am your fuck trophy.”

Suddenly the wand disappeared and he rolled me off of him. Still laying on his back, he ordered me to strip him naked. I clawed his pants off, moved him to sit to remove his shirt, and suddenly I was on my back and he entered me, feeling far too large but still so good. I climaxed instantly, and he took me to several more orgasms before ordering me to make him cum.

Afterwards, him softening inside of me, we kissed softly several times, as we told each other we loved each other, a stark contrast to just moments beforehand.

I love having enough trust to play this hard.

Wicked Wednesday
February Photofest 2015

 Posted by at 8:53 am