Continued from Part 1:
He stands and leaves the room. While he's getting the ice, I wonder how this is going to play out. He's no dominant, doesn't play in the bondage or sadism neck of the woods - at least as far as I know. But, good god, the pain and his hand around my wrist like that...
When he comes back, I've got myself marginally under control, the wax picked away from my palm. The skin's reddened, tingling. He sits beside me, setting something cold on the palm of my hand. Some icecubes wrapped in a dishcloth. It's cool against the heat that sings in my skin, and I shudder at the sensation. The dishcloth is rough-textured; I can feel every thread, or at least tell myself that I can.
"I believe that you seek pain," he says heavily. His hands carefully wrap my fingers over the bundle of cold; a gentle touch now, not that iron grip around my wrist that unwound me as much - maybe more - as the heat of the wax. The remains of the hunger roused by that grip has flagged, but there's enough of it left for me to crave the harder grip again.
"Pain's part of it," I say, trying to keep my voice level. I don't want him to know how strong the reaction was.
"There are other aspects?"
"Dominance," I say, almost reluctantly. God, if he asks me to demonstrate that on top of the wax....
He raises an eyebrow.
"I like to...comply, I guess you could say. I like to please. Or be made to please."
His hand closes harder around mine, making me grip the ice harder. It hurts: my skin is so tender, the ice is hard and the cloth abrasive. I whimper a little, and he releases my hand.
"I didn't mean to hurt you," he says, and I shake my head, just a little, rejecting his words; there was no way that tightening of his grip was accidental. He recognises my expression, and looks a little - shamefaced? Rueful?
"Maybe that's why I'm asking," he said. "If you seek pain, seek to please... others must seek the opposite side of the coin...." His voice trails off, and he looks away.
"Yes. People who give pain, who dominate." My tone is neutral; I think this is the point of the conversation we've been having. Not my drives, but his. "They're out there, of course. I think it's harder on male dominants sometimes; that whole thing boys - men - are raised with about not hitting women, treating them with respect." I smile a little. "Makes it hard for them to treat specific women - me, say - with disrespect, when that's exactly what I want."
"The line between this," he says, nodding to my hand, "and abuse--"
"Is a wide one. Consent. Trust." With my good hand, I reach for his and place it to my throat. "I can do this," I say, knowing he can feel the vibration of my voice against his palm, "because I trust you. I know you won't harm me. You may have those drives - dominance, sadism - but that doesn't make you a danger to me, or to anyone else."
His hand rests, warm, against my throat. I sit, calm, my eyes half-closed, my pulse beating against his palm...
I'm kneeling on the bed; he sits behind me.
I can't move. I'm bound in my kneeling position, both my ropes and by his word to stay still. I can't see; the heavy, smothering impromptu hood covers not only my eyes but the upper part of my head. It blocks my hearing as well; the room's quiet, so I can't hear anything. The only senses left to me are scent; the ink from the marker pen, the clean cotton of the pillowcase and the sheet that overwraps it - taste and touch. Taste; his come in my mouth. Touch; the ropes that bind me, the sheets on the bed beneath me, my hot breath trapped in the hood by the pillowcase over my head and the sheet wrapped over that. And my own arousal; I can feel my own wetness, the come he's left in me. He's already used me tonight; this is just the final act.
But most of all, I feel the cool air on my naked back and the even cooler sensation of the marker pen moving on my skin. It hurts; earlier in the night, it amused him to flog me until my back was raw, until I was sobbing and begging for him to stop. Now, the skin is still hot and tight, and the feather touch of the marker moving over my back makes me whimper.
I have no idea what he's writing, but he started at the top of my back, and he's halfway down now, words covering my skin in permanent ink. Whatever he's writing, I know two things; first, it will take days or more to wear away, and it won't wash off. Second, it'll be either obscene or related to my slavery to him.
That's because he knows me. He knows what this sort of thing does to me. He knows how it'll affect me to have to choose my clothing carefully to cover up the writing; he knows how it'll affect me to have words identifying me as a slut, a whore, a slave on my back as I go about my day-to-day life in the ordinary world, so that someone might just see, so that I might possibly be discovered.
And just the writing itself; you don't write on people, you write on property. The mere act of carrying writing on my skin like this is arousing, and I'm going to be wearing it for a while.
And perhaps conditioning, too. He only does this during or after a hard session, when I'm aroused and he's given me pain. The scent of the marker pen seems to be becoming inextricably entwined in my mind with arousal and pain. It's reaching the point where the scent of one at work makes me wet. I tell him that, and he laughs at me.
The marker pen tickles on; I stay still, shivering as he writes on and on, the words marching over my skin. If I shiver too much, he swats me and I settle again.
When he's done - and it seems to take an hour - he unwinds the sheet from around my head and lifts off the pillowcase. I crane my neck to see my back in the mirror. The words are in black, and stand out against my skin. The same ones, repeated over and over again, in black, bold letters an inch high: slut fucktoy slave whore cunt cocksucker toy slut fucktoy slave whore cunt cocksucker toy, from the top of my back to just above my buttocks. I shudder in pleasure at reading the words.
He sits behind me, leans forward; I feel his breath on my neck and tilt my head, exposing my throat. He nips, then bites, sucking the skin between his teeth repeatedly; it's going to leave one very obvious bruised bitemark. Everyone's going to know what it is.
"My slut, my slave, my fucktoy," he breathes, and bites again, harder, until I whimper, dissolving into the pain and the words and the writing on my back...
]]>Stepping away from the fiction for a moment, I must apologise.
I really don't write in this thing often enough, and I have a few yarns going that I haven't finished. Chat was planned as a multi-part story, but stalled out; Glass should have had at least two more parts to it; Belief was going to be the start of a story, but that kind of mutated into The Other Man. And all the others...
*sigh*
Sadly, you shouldn't look for me to improve my record any time soon. The impulse to write is a constant, but at the moment, the impulse to write porn seems to have fallen away.
So, in lieu of doing anything myself, I'll recommend two people whose erotica I enjoy immensely: solipsubmissive and remittancegirl both write graceful (not to mention hot, or thought-provoking, or just plain intriguing) erotica, and I've got 'em both on my RSS feed. It makes my day to see something new from either of them.
Anyone got any good porn recommendations? Maybe reading more will actually spark something...
]]>Continued from here - but just a little, it's kind of late here. I just want to keep moving on this story.
Turns out there'd been the occasional discussion between Nick and Master as well. The same subject, of course, but about it from my Master's point of view.
I came home from work on Friday afternoon; the first hint of something unusual was that there was an extra car. Nick's. Which I hadn't expected; remember, at that stage, I thought Nick and my Master hardly knew each other. I came in, and found them sitting in the living room, talking.There's a usual protocol we have at home. Master's hardly the strictest dominant in the world, but there are a few rules for me to follow. Usually on returning home, I kneel at his side and wait for him to acknowledge me; it's a way of slipping back into that submissive, slave role after being out in the world. But today - I was uncertain of how to act.
"As usual, little one," Master said tranquilly. "Kneel."
I did; I can't help but obey. Nick watched, his head slightly tilted to one side.
"It's not usual for her to have to perform in front of others who aren't in the scene," Master explains. "She doesn't usually hesitate when it's just the two of us, or in front of other dominants or submissives. When she understands what's happening, she'll obey you as readily as she does me."
What?
"You've been talking with Nick for some time now, little one, and so have I," Master says. "He's expressed an interest in learning more - with the emphasis on practical learning, you might say."
My breath stops in my throat.
"I'm handing you over to him; he'll take you to Whiplash tonight. Until he returns you to me, you'll obey him as you do me, do you understand?"
Mouth dry with shock, I nod. He hasn't asked me, but only because he knows the answer I'd give; he knows the interest I have in Nick, knows I trust him. Master's obviously come to trust him as well; he'd never hand me over to him unsupervised like this without that trust. He's shared me before; both men and women at various times, and we've both enjoyed the thrill, so there's some history there. But, before now, he's always been there to take part or watch...not this time.
"I have to ask something," Nick says to Master, and I look at him sharply; is that a little unsteadiness in his voice? Very likely he's even less at ease than I am at the moment. I have experience in kink, but he doesn't; I've done things like this before, he hasn't. "I can't do this without asking, are you all right with this?" He's speaking to me now. "If you're not, say so--"
I nod, but shakily.
"I've explained your safewords and limits," Master says. "There's a bag packed for you; it's on the bed. Go and get it, and then come back here."
...more later...
There's a man I know; Nick. He's a nice guy, a friend of mine. He knows my Master, but only at a distance, through me, and they've just met a few times. My Master knows I have something of an attraction to him, in addition to the friendship; I don't hide it. I'm a rotten liar for one thing, and Master knows me, knows what catches my attention, for another. He knew within about ten seconds of meeting Nick for the first time that he was my type.
Nick's a cop, for one thing. It's not the handcuffs, I swear; it's just that I have a strong attraction to alpha males, and he's certainly that, an alpha male. He's older than me by ten, twelve years; he's very tall, six and a half feet, whereas I'm short and petite, only five-three. Physically larger and stronger than me. And his voice; he's quietly spoken but still authoritative. There's something calm and steady about him.
Nick is well aware of my tendencies; I made one too many jokes about handcuffs around him, and one day, when there was nobody else around, he asked me about it. Serious questions, no judgement; he wanted to know why I like pain and humiliation, why I need to submit. We've been talking, in abstract terms, for about six months and, just as he's aware of my attraction for Nick, Master's aware of these conversations as well. He doesn't mind; he knows they're serious discussions, not flirtations in disguise.
Turns out there'd been the occasional discussion between Nick and Master as well...
[Note: this is a truncated post because I have to go cook dinner and Vox doesn't allow you to save drafts. So you'll just have to wait a few hours or a few days until the next part goes up. Oh, and it is fiction; some basis in fact, in that there's someone who's not my husband/Master I do have a bit of a crush on, but his name's not Nick. That name's actually a bit of a personal joke. More later - must go cook dinner.]
]]>"Give me your hand," I say. He does.
His hand is larger than mine - only fitting, he's over a foot taller than I, and broader. I can feel the bones and tendons as I hold it lightly, his palm up. I cover his palm with my other hand, feel the warmth for a moment. "Trust me?" I ask. He nods. He's a friend; he's asked me why I seek pain. He doesn't believe I truly enjoy it, or that it's real pain.
I open his hand out flat, and hold his hand loosely, just to keep it steady. I pick up the candle and, holding it high, tilt it slowly. No stream of hot wax, just a few droplets. His hand flinches a little in mine, more in anticipation of heat than the actuality of it; from this height, there'd be very little heat in the wax.
"Warm," he says, and I nod.
"Tell me if it gets hot," I say, lower the candle and drip a little more. Again, a little lower. A fourth series of spatters of wax onto his hand and this time he pulls it away.
"Hot," he says, and begins to pick the little drips of wax - already hardening - off his palm.
"Now watch," I say, and set the candle down on the table between us. I need to let the pool of wax around the wick build up again; there's another way I can demonstrate in the meantime. I look at him, meeting his eyes, and then pass my hand, palm-down, through the candle flame; swiftly at first, as anyone might - and then more slowly. Again, slower; pain blossoms in my palm, and he snatches my hand away from the flame, turning it palm-up. Reddened skin, not quite blistered; the pain sings, and I gasp when he traces my lifeline. The skin is hot to the touch, I know.
Before he can say anything, I take up the candle in my other hand and pour a small flood of wax into my palm, sealing the heat in. It pools in my cupped palm, and I moan at the additional heat. His hand tightens around my wrist; I can see the anxiety in his expression.
I close my eyes and lose myself in the pain and the strength of his grip, just for a moment; it's so seductive, wrapping around me, cushioning me and bearing me up.
"Hey," he says, and there's real concern in his tone.
"I'm all right," I say, my voice sounding distant. All I want is to curl up in his lap, savour the pleasure and pain until it passes, just for a few minutes. His hand around my wrist is one thing but, oh, feeling him holding me while I feel this....
It's passing, though; just a little pain, and it's passing, the world is resuming its normal shape again. I begin to peel the wax away from my palm.
"Would you like some ice for that?" he asks, seeing the colour of the skin beneath.
"Thank you," I say. He doesn't realise it but the heat has left my hand tingling, every nerve ending dancing. Cloth-wrapped ice will soothe the almost-burn, but it will be a new sensation too, something that borders on pain. But I need it; I've come close to burning myself.
He stands and leaves the room. While he's getting the ice, I wonder how this is going to play out. He's no dominant, doesn't play in the bondage or sadism neck of the woods - at least as far as I know. But, good god, the pain and his hand around my wrist like that...
]]>I'm on the couch, blouse open, skirt hitched up. I lean back, spreading my legs so he can see what's under my skirt; nothing, just my bare, shaved pussy.
He's sitting opposite me, watching; there's no expression on his face, just a clinical detachment. That's somehow more of a turn-on than interest or arousal; I'm just here for his amusement, his satisfaction, not my own. He's letting me play with myself, but not for my gratification; it gets him hard, to know that I'm aroused, wet for him.
He's given me one toy to play with: the glass dildo, a curved string of glass nodules, topped by one large solid glass ball. He prefers that I use the largest glass ball - not just yet, though. I need to be aroused to be able to take it; even smooth and near-frictionless as it is, it's large and unyielding and, if I'm not aroused enough, wet enough, it bruises.
But tonight, when I begin to stroke my clit, he shakes his head. "You're wet enough," he says. "Fuck yourself."
I shiver; the coolness of his voice tells me what sort of night I'm in for. He's going to use me hard; I'll finish the night aching and sore.
It will be worth it. The pain he gives is delicious, even if he almost never lets me come.
I spread my legs further, displaying myself to him, taking a deep breath to ready myself. I set the head of the glass dildo against myself - and push, hard. Even knowing, expecting the invasion, I can't keep back the groan; it always feels huge in the first few moments, impossibly large. I shudder, my head falling back in pleasure, and begin to work the dildo deeper into myself.
"Does it hurt?" he asks impassively.
"Yes," I breathe; it's all I can muster up. The sensation of this cool, hard thing in me is my whole world; pain, pleasure, painpleasure. But it will ease; as I begin to fuck myself slowly with it, my body reacts. I grow wetter, feel myself accommodating its diameter.
"Good," he says, not standing. There'll come a moment when he moves; it won't happen until he's ready to put his cock in place of the dildo. Or in other places. I don't know how long it will take until that point arrives, either; I can see that he's hard, but he can last like that a good while. "Play with your clit."
I'm all too willing to obey that order, and my fingers skate over my clit, silky smooth and slick, heated. I make a small, involuntary noise; a purr of pleasure.
"You look like a whore," he says. "Spread, wet, fucking yourself. Whore."
From him, it's praise, and I smile a little, sleepy, catlike. I work the dildo in and out. It still feels large, but now it's purely pleasurable; I've adapted to it, my body's warmed it. It's hard as stone, still, but it's welcome in me now.
"Harder," he says, and I obey, thrusting the glass nodule into me as my fingers work on my clit.
Not hard enough for him. He stands - he moves fast for such a big man; his speed and grace always surprise me - and grabs the dildo from me. He pushes me back into the couch with one hand, kneeling on the edge of the couch, and uses his other hand to ram the dildo hard into me. He's much more cruel to me than I can be to myself; this hurts. The next thrust hurts more, and he pins me down, fucking me with the toy, so hard; all I can do is make myself breathe, endure, remind myself of his pleasure at this. I moan, my hips rising to meet every savage thrust because it's pleasure as much as it is pain, and I can lose myself in both, so deep that it feels like I'll never emerge from it--
His kiss is as savage as the rest, bruising hard on my lips, then on my throat; he bites, marking me, not stopping his assault with the dildo. I begin to whisper pleas, begging his permission to come
"Don't," he says, his breath hot on my throat. "You haven't come close to earning it yet, whore. I don't want you distracted from what you're supposed to be doing."
Suffering, enduring; that's my task. And pleasing him.
He rams the dildo deep into me, as deep as it'll go; this time, though, he doesn't withdraw it, just keeps the pressure on until I'm mewling in pain, hips bucking in pleasure. The expression on his face is clinical; I'm a specimen, as he studies how much I can take. My fingers fall away from my clit, nerveless; his take over, mercilessly driving me towards the climax he's denying me.
"Take it," he whispers. "Take it all. The pain, the pleasure - ride it...."
His fingers on my clit play me, taking me right to the brink and holding me there until I'm nearly weeping in pain and pleasure and need. So good, so sweet - I'm incoherent, babbling, pleading for release; I can't cum without his permission and he knows it, he's trained me well.
He puts my hand on the dildo. "Hold it there," he says. "I know how deep in it is; don't ease off."
I nod, whimpering and whining in need - but when his hand releases mine, I keep the dildo as deep in me as he had it, no surcease from the pain.
"Face away from me," he says, and I obey. I move slowly, awkwardly, kneeling on the couch, leaning on the back. There's sound behind me; the rustle of denim as he unbuttons his fly and frees his cock, the lube bottle being opened. So this is how it's going to happen tonight; I shiver in anticipation and my fingers return to my clit.
There's no preliminary; just his hands on my ass cheeks, and then his lubed cock head pressing against my asshole. He presses; I moan as I feel him invading me, stretching me around him. He's got a good-sized cock anyway; thick, veined. I love to lick it, suck it; more, I love feeling it in me, and now he gives it to me. Slowly, but all that does is draw out the sensation; I can feel every inch of it as he impales me. And it hurts - his cock combined with the glass dildo still in me is overwhelming...
_________
The dildo in the story is based on (but larger than) the spine glass dildo on this page. Scroll down to find it.
How did you celebrate Valentine's Day?
Submitted by Stephen.
We didn't, really; we never have. Why put all the pressure on just one day? If there's one day we try to make sure to do something, it's on our anniversary, or on the weekend closest to it. We'll go away for the weekend - I have a thing about hotel rooms - I love 'christening' a new space. So we'll find a new hotel or bed and breakfast or something else, and go away; go out for dinner, go back to our room and do immoral things to each other.
Very enjoyable.
I've long been a fan of the work of Luis Royo; I find his work incredibly erotic, sometimes in rather disturbing ways.
The link leads to a site with a lot of his art. Registration is required (it's free, you don't have to give any personal details), but worth if, if you like his stuff. (Note, I'm not affiliated with Fantaysia.com, it's just a good gallery of Royo art.
]]>
She looked up from the keyboard nervously.
"Do it," he said, looking down at her; she was on the floor at his feet, the laptop resting on its board on her crossed legs. She was naked but for the chain metal collar that circled her throat, and the leash leading from it to his wrist. He sat in a comfortable chair, using the desktop computer. Both computers were at the login page of a chat site. She'd entered the name he'd directed her to use for the session: kneeling_slut. His was Slut'sMaster.
"Do it," he said again, and she hit the 'enter' key that would log her into the chat room as he had already done.
There were rooms within the chat; some seemed social, non-playing, to go by the names. Others were obviously intended for other purposes.
He typed, and she saw a new room pop up; a private room with the password in the title. He'd called it 'fuck my wife'.
"Into the room," he said, and she obediently clicked on the title, entered the password.
Others entered quickly.
Do your work, slut, he typed; everyone in the room could read it.
She responded obediently. I am a slut, she typed. My Master has opened this room to allow anyone who wants to use me to do so. In any way.
Then she sat and waited for the responses.
They came, thick and fast: a virtual gangbang, and he directed her to ignore nobody. Anyone, no matter how crude, was welcomed. Open conversation in the room he'd set up, private messages; she had to take them all.
In a private message conversation, one man fucked her up the ass, describing her screaming in pain. In another, she sucked a man's cock to great mutual pleasure. In a third, a man held her gently, bringing her to climax, encouraging her to then ride him. In the main room, she endured being ordered to call herself a whore and a slut, crawling and begging for cock for the amusement of the participants before they fucked her.
And, in the living room, she moaned softly, still typing as he came to kneel behind her, fingering her clit, fucking her with his fingers, holding his slick and dripping fingers up for her to lick. When she lifted her fingers from the keyboard, though, moaning softly in pleasure, he slapped her face lightly. "Don't forget what you're supposed to be doing," he said.
She bent obediently to the keyboard again, feeling his fingers returning to her clit. When he was closest to her, she could feel his cock through his jeans; hard as a rock, and she whimpered at the sudden, vivid flash in her mind. Not memory, not imagination; as real, all-encompassing as living it, she was drowned in the thought and sensation of him within her. She shuddered, half-turning to him, greedy for the touch and taste, before a jerk on the leash and collar reminded her of what she was supposed to be doing.
"If you do well tonight," he said, "you'll get what you need."
She typed, not caring about the typos and mistakes.
"Good little whore," he whispered, his fingers as dextrous on her body as hers were on the keyboard. She moaned, didn't lift her fingers from the keyboard, satisfying - in type - all comers. Knowing that, later, he'd be doing the same to her, taking his pleasure from her...