Saturday, 19 April 2008

Beg Me

"Get on the table, on your back," he said. I clambered onto the table-top, a little light-headed, and propped myself up on my elbows. He walked over slowly and deliberately. "Spread your legs," he told me, and awkwardly I responded, always uneasy at putting myself on display in such a way, even to somebody familiar, even to somebody I had promised to please. A wicked grin spread across his face as he told me to spread them wider...wider...wider, until I made a sound of muffled annoyance from beneath the black tape across my mouth. I tried to squeak the syllabals that I could not possibly go any farther. He paused and ran his eyes over my body, shaking his head, "Such a slut..." I felt my face redden and let myself fall back flat onto the surface so that I could cover my face with my hands. He moved in closer and I brought my hips up to meet his hand. I moaned as he pinched and tugged on my labia, "Whose slut are you?" My breathing quickened and I tried to make a noise that sounded like,

"I am yours, Sir," he pinched harder and I yelped,

"Look at me," he said, so I propped myself up again and fixed my eyes on his, and through the tape, I tried to repeat, "Yours,". Without ever breaking our gaze, he slowly, leisurely, slid his cock into my pussy. A rush of pleasure surged through me, and my hips began to buck against him. Lazily he moved in and out of me, ordering me to hold myself still, until pleading sounds of frustration escaped my sealed lips. He reached in towards me and tore the tape from my mouth, I cried out, but was soon silenced as he pressed his lips firmly onto mine. I kissed him back, longing for him to stop teasing me, for him to fuck me harder. Gently his mouth moved across my cheek and to my neck. As he began to kiss and lick the patch of skin just below my ear, he gently whispered to me, "Beg me to fuck your arse..." My entire body stiffened, and yet even as I replied to him that I could not do that, he was still fucking my pussy slowly, distractingly...I bit my lip and moaned, and could no longer prevent myself from moving against him. "I won't tell you again," he said. I looked up at him, but hesitated as I was about to speak. Suddenly he slapped his hand hard against my cheek, hard enough that I fell back and that my eyes watered. I was too stunned to speak or move. Eventually, I looked up at him, and quietly said to him,

"I don't think I can ask you to do that, Sir," Without a word, he withdrew from me and grabbed a fistful of my hair and pulled me off the table. I cried out in pain,

"Beg me, slut," he said.

Still the words did not come, and finally he told me that if I would not beg, then I would not speak at all, then he forced his cock into my mouth. His hands cupped the back of my head, and he began to fuck my face so hard that I gagged. He ignored my strained cries, and my small hands around his wrists, which made little difference, as he is so much stronger than I. The dark makeup I had smudged around my eyes now began to stream down my cheeks. Finally he pulled my head back and told me to open my mouth. Immediately I obeyed, looking up at him from beneath lashes of running mascara, eagerly awaiting the taste of him in my mouth.

He watched me carefully lick my fingers and my lips clean, "I think I like you best with black streaks down your face," he said, "And I am going to ask you again tomorrow, think about what you will say, because there are worse things than running mascara."

Thursday, 10 April 2008

That Thing...

So...what is my problem with being fucked in the arse? I wonder if that is even the question? But I suppose that I am gradually revealing more and more of myself here, though I am not sure just how nervous I should be about that...

I have only ever been fucked in the arse once. Does that shock you? I think the reason for this is that I view it as a deeply degrading and deeply submissive act. Not in regards to anybody else, but definitely in regards to me. Because of this, I tend to wrestle with the secret relish I have at being asked, or made, to do such a thing; and the simultaneous resistance I all at once feel. It is not something that I could ever ask for. Do I fantasise about it...? What do you think?

Tuesday, 1 April 2008

A Requested Idea

Take my clothes away from me, tell me that every man you send to me I am to obey as I obey you. Lock me in a room. Then let them come, let them come to hurt me, play with me, fuck me, rape me and anything else that they may wish. Let me cry, let me be afraid. Just let my eyes be covered so I do not see who is violating me.


I have been specifically asked to research ownership and symbolism, and yet I have read nothing so far that catches my attention. Nevertheless, I suppose I can add to it all with some brief writing of my own.

It's an uneasy thing for me to admit to myself that I want to be owned. I am strongwilled, assertive and a woman who believes that she knows herself very well. And I suppose that is why I am forcing myself to be truthful. I shall not even attempt to articulate the feelings that all this produces in me, and I wouldn't do a very good job if I tried. What I do know is this: that I want to willingly give my mind and my body into the hands of somebody else. I know that the extent of the control is not something to be viewed lightly, nor is the extent of the inequality that I seem about to plunge myself into. But I want it so. And if at times a lot is being asked of me, I also understand that for the person taking control, a lot of thought, time, and attention will be put into our "non-partnership". I know that owning another can be hard work. Sometimes I know that I can be difficult, but this is always due to the inner conflict my submissive part has with the rest of me, and sometimes it is due to the (what somebody once called "Western values") that are ingrained in me. These are things that I must overcome in order to fulfill my role, and that can only be done with trust, which is at the very core of any such relationship, along with honesty.

I feel that any symbol that cements a D/s relationship should be a deeply personal thing. The collar is not a uniform! I do not relish the idea of a tattoo or branding, largely because I am a coward, and I rather like my smooth, white, virginal skin...I won't begin to try to comment on what such permanent marks mean to people, because I have never been in their circumstances. At this moment in time, what would mean the most to me would be something subtle and elegant that I could wear all of the time. Despite all of this, there is always the wonderful sensation of someone placing a collar around your neck as you kneel. I have a very small neck, and large collars give me a headache, so I think that something dainty, light, and of course extremely pretty would be the thing for me...
I think tonight I am one of my moods where the words on these matters do not come easily.