3 posts tagged “fiction”

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...

I don't have enough time to write, it seems - or, more accurately, I seem to always have other things to write, other blogs to keep up with, and I'm not writing any of these little fuck-ficlets.  Which is a shame, because I enjoyed writing them - writing them always got me good and horny.

So, here's an idea; if you'd like one written, post a comment.  Tell me what you want to read, and I'll see what I come up with.  Be detailed or vague about what you want, but the more detail, the better I can tailor what I write.

Conditions:

• They'll only be little ficlets, a few thousand words at most, sometimes less, written in a single sitting.
• I do scenes between consenting adults - or adults who, at worst, consent to non-consent, if you get what I mean.
• I reserve the right not to write anything I don't like the idea of.
• No promises on how long it'll take me; I may be able to write something for you there and then, or inspiration might take a few days to strike.  Don't nag me *grin*

Know anyone on Vox who might enjoy a custom-written fuck-ficlet within those strictures?  Feel free to pass the word...

The air was cool on her skin - all her skin, for she was naked but for her high heeled shoes and the heavy leather collar about her throat.  A long silver chain led from it to his hand; using the leash in one hand and taps from a long carriage whip in the other, he had her walking in a circle around the courtyard, much as handlers walked thoroughbreds for sale.  The heels of her stilettos clicked on the courtyard paving, the sound loud in the stillness of the night.

Eyes watched her; half a dozen people, men and women.  They watched her as he made her walk in a circle, displaying her.  Her long hair was wrapped into a bun, ballerina style, showing the clean line of her neck; the high heeled shoes lengthened her legs, and tautened her butt; her hands being clasped behind her back, the pose he'd ordered for her, pulled her shoulders back and put her breasts to best display.  Though she held her head high, proud of being his service, her eyes were downcast.

He brought her to a halt with a slight tug on the leash and the faintest tap of the carriage whip on her flank.  She stood, looking surreptitiously at her examiners through lowered lashes.  Four men, two women, every eye on her; a shiver ran through her at the thought.

"This," he said, his words falling soft into the cool night air, "is my pet, and she is tonight's party favour."