It’s early and her eyes were barely open, but the pounding in her chest told her it was almost time. The clock was redundant today.(read more…)
Welcome to Day 10 of my Naughty and Nice Christmas vignettes. It’s nearing the big day itself, so my last three vignettes are all Christmas(read more…)
I know he’ll be alone, with anyone else nearby already asleep; I feel alone, too, here, surrounded by people all going about their business(read more…)
My imagination taunts me: my own hands become his hands against my skin, reliving every touch, every culmination of our messages, and every single year of desire since I first set eyes upon him. Amid the gushing water and the waves of tears I make myself come, because I need to find a release from the excruciating pain that threatens to overwhelm me. The feeling builds, an all-consuming ache that roots itself in my cunt and winds through me like a serpent, at the picture of his face burned on my retina, and the memory of the way I clung to him during the night, finally knowing the fullness of him inside me. The pure energy of the memory threatens to leave me unconscious there under the water, drowning me in my own desire and desperation and salty reprisals.
Today’s story is a bit different in a number of ways. It’s soulful, but it extends beyond the erotic only, touching on other themes. It(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.
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
Why’s he sending me kisses? This is a game, surely, this Master-slave idea about us that he’s got in his head. Do all would-be Masters send kisses to their would-be subs, or slaves, or—I don’t even know what the hell I’m talking about, do I? What are they called? How should I know what they do? And kisses. He remembers, doesn’t he, what they used to do to me? I feel it now—that throb between my legs, the tingling on my skin, the way my insides tumbled over. I remember, even if he doesn’t, the touch of his lips on mine. The way they butterflied down my neck and over my shoulder. How on that one single morning he opened my dressing gown, damp and sticking to my freshly showered nakedness, and laid it open on the bed as his lips journeyed down my body until my moans met his kisses.