Helios

The knickers cut across my thighs as I sit alone on the wooden chair, naked except for them and a black leather collar that rides high on my neck, where the dampness of my sweat is prickling. Pink silk with blue lace details, they pack my cock so tight and small it feels like a chastity device. It is both because of the cold and my nerves that I shiver and wait.

You enter wearing a kimono, some sort of harness in your hand and point at the floor. I kneel, legs spread, looking up to you. You let your kimono fall open, your flesh spills out, delicious, soft and ripe. You bend to kiss me once on the head, I catch the scent of you as your breasts sway in my face, and then the jerk of your hand, as you slip over the head harness and the ball gag into my mouth.

You hold both my cheeks between your hands, staring deep into my eyes. Without breaking the contact of touch or vision, you sweep up my face until the tip of the ball is resting at the apex of your labia. I can smell you now, fresh and wet, your softness resting on my face. And with a single thrust you scrape my ball gag down and between your lips, pressing the clit like a grocer’s thumb carelessly bruising fruit. At the bottom of the sweep, you hold my head down firmly, as the blood gathers and my face fills out the frame of the gag, blowing hard and struggling but powerless in your hands. I hear the last of your breath leave your body – it is the groan of an emptying valve.

A handful of hair and I am back up, pulled in and scraped even closer. You pause to rub my nose into your clit as the ball hovers at your cunt entrance. The blood rush of returning upright mixes with your heady aroma and I feel a sideways lurch, my balance now slipping. You tighten your grip, and then I feel your feet turn out and your hips and legs opening. And now we are done with long sweeping strokes. Short angry stabs at your hooded, swelling bud, thick with mucus and the strings of my saliva, the ball now rattling urgently in my mouth as I vainly try to swallow. I gradually tip back further and further as you drag me under you, my head now a statute in a crane’s cradle that you sweep and drag, up and down, back and forth, faster and faster across the scratchy outer lips and smooth wetness within, shaking with the force of your heaving lungs and impending climax.

And when it comes you clench me tight between your legs and it seems my whole face is sucked into you. My ears are sheltered from your cries as you come, but I can feel them through my head and whole frame. I close my eyes and give in to the moment as you flood my face with your need to take me and use me. To make me feel filthy because you know that’s what I need. And to ratchet up my desire with no prospect of release. Because that is what you need.

You flinch and now I’m falling, my back hits the floor, shattering the glass of my feelings that are blown and shaped around your desire. You bestride me like Helios, and I can see the sun and the moon and stars stretch out before me as I slip into your darkness.

 

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Counting down 

The secret to swimming is to count down not up. Pick the number of laps, pick the goal, and strike them off until you get there. Don’t count up into an empty infinity because wherever you stop it, won’t be enough.

Counting down as I push through the wetness. Eyes on the task I have to achieve. 40, 39, 38…

There’s no one to police me here. No one will know if I stop with five to go. But I will know. Sometimes breaststroke but I prefer to crawl. Always questions, sometimes breakthroughs.

There is a place I will get to between 30 and 15 laps to go. I am swimming without knowing. And the key is being aware of the unawareness without letting go of the count. Was that 20 or 18? Eyes on the task I have to achieve.

Sometimes I get so lost in the task I lose the count. And I carry it with me as I go. 38 or 36? 24 or 22? 14 or 12? If I’ve dropped a lap, no one is watching.

Today I carried a dropped count almost all the way through. Two possibilities in my head as I stroked off the score. 10 or 8? 6 or 4? When I reached nominal zero, heart pumping, legs leaden, lungs burning. No one was there to question the count. But I knew I might have messed up.

So I turn tail and head back up and down for two more. No one is keeping score. But I will know. And it’s important to me to do it right.

Counting down as I push through the wetness. Eyes on the task I have to achieve. Sometimes breaststroke but I prefer to crawl.

Sinful Sunday 353: Knickers with a twist

One of the delights of a new D/s is the decision-making about new tasks and rituals. With Violet (@Fireandhoney) this week, I went shopping for panties for use in tasks, using the wonders of the realtime internet to ensure I bought the good stuff, with Violet in my phone to sign off on purchases.

She was worried I’d be put on some sort of Register for touring the women’s undies section of M&S with a phone, taking pics. This is part of the challenge of the dual life of undercover kink – you always think everyone can see your inner thoughts, and you are waiting to be exposed. I was quite happy that a middle-aged man obviously using his phone to discuss the purchase of knickers with a third party was exactly the sort of behaviour you would expect to see. A put-upon working husband checking the purchases he was bravely making under direct instructions from Her Indoors.

In the end, decisions were made, including the bonus of a third pair in the 3 for 2 sale. And I engage in the usual ironic pantomime at the cash register.

“They don’t quite look your size, sir. Ha ha ha ha ha!”

If only you knew, my man. If only you knew…

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Click on the kisser below to see who else is is getting sinful this week…

Sinful Sunday

Backside to the future 

As with many CIS straight men, the pleasure of penetrating my own bottom has come to me reasonably late in life. And so far it has been a solo performance as I have discovered the joys of the prostate orgasm. So when I think of how this might be done as a duet, I’ve had some fairly fixed fantasy ideas. Such as the one in the .gif below.

https://nipples-n-milking.tumblr.com/post/168854861764

I think part of the point of this image was meant to be the drippy vagina, the long thread of mucus dangling as she pumps. But, to be completely honest, I didn’t even notice it was two girls when I first saw it, as I was so taken with the movement – the bouncy joy and the forcing of the receiver’s face into the floor.

I reblogged it on tumblr because it represents my usual feelings about pegging. When I eventually get to receive it, that is how I have always imagined it. Being ridden down into the floor, the sense of being filled combined with being face down eating the carpet. All the submissive vibes and sexual pleasure in one. Take that, dirty slut.

Don’t get me wrong, it is still very hot, but I now have a new focus for my fantasy. It is no longer an anonymous pegger fucking me. And that changes things, because it is no longer an abstract fantasy, but something to be realistically considered. And anal sex is a bit more complicated.

For instance, I think it unlikely I will get to a level of bouncy joyfulness like that shown until there has been some practice. Given my circumstances, I am not sure if that will happen very quickly. But it has also gone from being an abstract dangerous, delicious taboo to an expression of love.

I don’t want to be pegged like a dirty slut so much as fucked as an expression of Dommely love. So my fantasy is changing now. We are lying side by side after a long time kissing, touching and reassuring. My ass has been well lubed and fingers have been used to open me up, with kisses of reassurance and holding.

She is wearing the harness with the dildo we have chosen as right for the first time. I have shown my worship and submission by going down on her, fellating her harnessed peg, She has forced my head down onto it until I gag. It is slobbery and wet, and we lube it together.

I raise one leg and she pushes inside me, easing my fears and opening me with her words and gentle kisses on my shoulders. We make love like this, half spooning, with a half hitched leg letting her in. Once inside me, she just holds the position. Letting me get used to the feeling of being filled. Slowly she withdraws half way, and pushes back in; I am nervous but she strokes me, assures me with her love. She thrusts again. Better. Easier. By the fifth time I am pushing back to get her deeper.

And now she has taken me to the subspace. I am channelling the pain into joy, and the feeling of being filled and fucked by Miss. She is whispering the words that make me feel alive, the words that assure me I am Hers. She is Big Spoon curling around and inside me and now she reaches around and takes my cock, which is growing firm under her assurance and her still-lubed fingers work me harder, feeling the effect as I rise and clench around her proxy cock.

She is thrusting quite confidently now, and I am taking it with short jolts and grunts of joy as her hand works me nearer the edge. With something inside me, my tumescence is lessened so she is now stroking me faster, taking a run up towards the cliff edge. Her lips at my ears, her hot, fast breath whispers me to the edge, holding back at the last minute. On the third time her voice is insistent, her command unmistakable: “come for me, Darling”

And I am over, now free-falling, the spiralling spume now spilling over her knuckles and fist as she holds tighter, levering off my pouring cock to push harder inside me, deeper, utterly filling me at the back as she empties me at the front. I cry out in relief and pain, joy and hurt, and wonder and love.

Click on the lips to see who else is getting in on the action this week:

Fighting the urge

“Is it all planned?”

“Yes, miss”

“Then tell me how it will play, slut”

“A picnic spread before us on the deserted Sussex Downs, gingham cloth, stoppered bottles and cut sandwiches. You looking beautiful in a swirling summer dress, bright red cupid’s bow lips stand sharp against the white-out sky as I squint into your eyes. A pause as I kneel to fill your drink, you look at me, nervously biting your lower lip. The sun feels warm on my face, and shimmers on your shoulders, bared to the breeze coming off the sea.

“And I want you. I want you now. The cup knocked and platters flipped as I spread you eagerly, you grip my neck tightly as I push up frantically against your billowing skirts. Thumbs loop your knickers and they are in my hands in an instant, I grasp your wetness firmly, slipping two then three digits inside your warm cunt. You squirm and your eyes are telling me: take me, Darling, and I am up against you eating at your mouth and neck as our food lies unwanted.

“Your hands busy and efficiently pull me free, massaging my balls as I strain at you with my drippy cock. This is about now, and our urgent need to fuck away this feeling with no time for the touching niceties of the bedroom. My dripping fingers are now out and my forearm is across you, bearing down upon your falling figure and I take you with all the energy I can muster. I fill you frantically, my hips hammering at your ass, the buttons flying from your blouse as I tear you open to feast upon your body. Every thrust like a blow as you grapple with my shoulders, we are fighters in the ring, you are down and I must hold you to the count, until the shaking in my legs can stand it no more. My desire needs your affirmation: the clenching of your cunt in reflex action, its wetness seeming to try to force me free while your arms encircle me. And I am spent, and you have me locked in the hold until I tap and submit.”

“Good boy.”

Daily Ritual – Sinful Sunday 352

For this month’s theme of Daily Ritual, I wanted to share a recent one. Violet (who tweets as @fireandhoney) and I entered 2018 as a new D/s, and I’m enjoying the blissful beginnings of the heart-racing, obsessive, hang-on-her-every-word drug of our relationship. And we’re not going to let an 8-hour time difference spoil the party.

Late night chats, pics, and sharing over the internet is our new daily ritual. While she sleeps, I try to create things to give her pleasure when she wakes, when I’ll be looking forward to our time-travelling conversations. We were drawn together by a common love of the rituals of D/s, and incorporating them into our daily lives gives us both uncommon joy.

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Rituals make the sub, and this sub is happy in his devotion. See who else has been creating bits of joy from their daily rituals, by clicking on the kisser below.

Sinful Sunday

 

Shooting from the grip

The other day I posted a blog post that I very nearly didn’t, and I wanted to explore why I found it problematic, and what it says about me as a sexual person. The post itself was here and was simply an image of a semen-covered screen, with words of tribute underneath. The inspiration and collaborator on the piece was Violet (@fireandhoney). Recently she and I have committed ourselves to D/s and I am proud and happy to be the sub at her feet.

There were a few reasons why I was initially uncomfortable with it. First of all, pictures are not really my thing in a blog – #SinfulSundays notwithstanding. My language is verbal not visual – I take pictures but without really a sense of them speaking more powerfully than my words. But mainly it was the picture contents: a screen with an image I had recently ejaculated over. Within the scheme of things, pretty mild – an implied sexual experience, and so-subtle-you-might-miss-it transparent traces over the bright backlit screen. Especially mild from a man who regularly celebrates acts of sexual licentiousness in fictional settings on the same pages.

Violet and I had been discussing the issue of documenting our new relationship on our respective blog pages – how it would work, what would we show etc. And so we had the question of whether I would post this on my blog. I decided I would, but I never promoted it across twitter as I would with a piece of writing and I wanted to understand why I felt embarrassed, even ashamed, to do so.

I’ve talked elsewhere of my longstanding body-image issues and how it made me feel I was undeserving of sexual gratification as a young man. But in coming to terms with the reality of my desires in recent years, and realisation of my Submissive nature, I realised a hitherto repressed side: an exhibitionist. Yet even here there is a paradox – I am an anonymous exhibitionist who doesn’t really do sexual. It was only when confronted with posting the picture of my cum-covered device that I realised the pictures of my naked body I have shared via #SinfulSunday and #GymLockerPics are not sexual at all. I had been sharing pictures of myself under the guise of sexpositive pride and all the while they were actively trying to hide the very thing they I had convinced myself I was revealing.

They may have been celebrations of my semi-naked form, but devoid of sexual context. Genitals hidden by strategically placed deodorant cans, creamers, padlocks and swimtrunks told of an eye that preferred its sex jokey. The reaction I was going for was a smile not a gasp; I was still that 18-year-old trying to hide his shame, but this time turning it into a joke. In short, my ‘visual kink brand’ was about seaside smut not honest sexuality explored. I was worried my readers’ smiles would turn into disappointed frowns like maiden aunts at a Chubby Brown review.

Maybe I should cut myself some slack. We can’t all be Robert Mapplethorpe and I am not under legal obligation to show what fizzes my whizzbangs. There are, let’s be honest, more important things in the world. But it took the proof of my physical, sexual self in public to make me realise that I still have a way to go before I’m comfortable with the raw evidence of my inner feelings. Thanks to Violet for helping me to realise this, and helping me to keep trying.