Happy National Orgasm Day! I first realised this was the case when I read the simply incredible Dorothy Freed’s post about her experience in creating(read more…)
Month: July 2016
I can’t speak. The pillow slips down onto my thighs, leaving my body pressed against Mike’s shirt. He’s warm, comforting, and I soak the material, leaving it translucent and clinging to him. But I can’t hide a grunt of pain any longer, and it’s only at that moment the state of my arm really seems to sink into his head.
“Bloody hell! How did you end up like this?” He tugs at the chain, at its lock, only then really drinking in the sight of me before him. Naked on the bed. He’s never seen me like this, ever. Not even partially clothed. His cheeks colour vivid pink, and it chases down his neck and into the collar of his shirt. I feel for him; my skin must be mirroring his embarrassment. But still I don’t answer. I can’t.
This Sunday story is another little offering from the collection of voyeur tales that I am working on. Just another little teaser, but a little(read more…)
Showers are one of my favourite erotic scenarios. Àdhamh’s poem captures the experience, just as I would imagine it myself. Fantastic poem!
Just his voice sets me gasping. My juices are beginning to tickle the top of my backside. Everything throbs. “I can’t believe you’re here.” The words seep through my lips. “Can I see you? Let me see you.”
“Keep your eyes closed.” His words are like silk. They wrap around my body, over my face, forming a veil of desire over my words. “I want you to do exactly as I tell you.”
“Yes.” My affirmation is nothing more than a whisper. My body feels incapable of articulating anything more coherent right now.
“Suck your fingers. One by one. Slowly. I want to see them wet.”
I do as he asks, drawing saliva up onto my tongue with difficulty, trying to keep my breathing even—how do I make my mouth sexy for him? I can barely breathe at all. But I manage, sucking each finger until they’re drenched for him.
“Good girl. Show me your wrist. Show me. Twist in that chain for me. I want to know you are properly tied to that bed.”
For my Sunday story, I have some flash fiction for you today. It’s a soulful little post, written very much as a companion to The(read more…)
A photo comes through. The blood rushes to my ears, my heartbeat drowning out every other noise, and an unexpected pang between my thighs, at the sight of a pair of handcuffs. I massage the throb into submission as I read the message: “Do you have any of these?”
What does he think I am? I reply: “No.”
Bing: “Heeheehee! I didn’t think you would. I have had SUCH fun with this pair.”
There’s that pang again, this time shooting through my middle, lodging between my legs and throbbing there, uncomfortably. He wants me to ask, doesn’t he—who has he had fun with? How many women; what has he done with those cuffs? My hand roams to the inside of my thigh, an image of some unknown six foot, flaxen haired stunner with her hands over her head, chained to the bed while he pushes open her knees, lifting her feet onto his shoulders while he grins at her and says, “I’m going to take you.
This week’s Sunday Story comes to you on…um…Monday! I took a day off yesterday, which you can blame entirely (well, almost) on the Wimbledon men’s(read more…)
I eat cake, and I have more, and as she’s telling me about the knitting group there’s a noise in my bag.
Bing: “Little love slave, I wish you were climbing on top of me and guiding me inside you. For some reason, I really like the idea of you climbing on top of me and feeding me into you… Those soft, beautiful breasts bouncing in front of my lips…”
My chest hurts; I struggle to control my breath. I can’t believe it. Not a command, a demand—just… I can feel the sweat breaking out in cold shivery patches all over my skin. Without really being conscious of what it might look like, I tongue the cream in the massive piece of cake, as Mrs Barnett pours me more tea. And try to ignore the image I have of me feeding his cock inside me. The client is talking, and I’m trying to concentrate. Why? Why didn’t he let it drop when I didn’t send him the picture? Why today? Why now? Why at all? An image of my naked body sitting astride him dominates my h