Sinful Sunday 355: Lock around the cock

One, two, three o’clock, four o’clock: lock

Five, six, seven o’clock, eight o’clock: lock

Nine, ten, eleven o’clock, twelve o’clock: lock

Short term chastity can mean putting in the time when you’re eight hours apart. But this  week my Domme and key holder @fireandhoney finally received the key for my new cage, after a journey a third of the way around the world.

It’s good to know I’m in safe hands.

Find out who else has been mentioning their unmentionables by  clicking on the lips below.

Sinful Sunday

This is how a sub feels tonight…

At a loose end all over, like a tethered kite in a gale. I feel like, at any moment, I will get ripped away by a wild wind and be lost from you forever, A strange anxiety because the need to belong to you is so strong is it both a comfort and a fear; that I literally don’t know what to do with myself when I feel the need to submit to you like this. I feel overclothed, which is not even a word but is exactly how I feel right now; it’s a common response of mine to anxiety caused by my submissiveness, the need to divest myself of all clothes, like I am deliberately choosing the most obvious way to make myself more vulnerable. That by doing so I will draw you in to gather me up in the safety of your knowing arms and make me feel needed and cherished and loved and… useful.

For the biggest fear is of not being needed, of being surplus to requirements. I understand this is a common sub fear, another one to add to the whole pile of things we can tie ourselves into knots over as subs: too needy, not observant or responsive enough, not being able to read minds, too bratty, not bratty enough, too… uninteresting enough to not be worth bothering with. Someone on a Femdom chatroom said a true thing the other day about punishing subs: how do you punish someone who gets off on punishment? The answer is to ignore them. Ghost or blank them for a few days. The sub is the most PassAgg of attention seekers and his greatest fear is of being overlooked.

But that is not how I feel tonight, because I am secure in the domination, love and protection of Miss. She relies on me to step up sometimes and protect her from bad things that threaten to derail her. I enjoy this, but it is a stretch skill – not the protecting, that is easy. Subs are not people who necessarily step back from a fight. I am a karate blue belt and can handle myself.

The stretch comes in the making decisions that anticipate something to help Miss, even if that action is based upon her direction. As we have learned about each other, she has needed me to draw upon my sub skills to help her manage her doubts and fears, and remind her how wonderful she is. When Miss is feeling more able to manage some things, then I gratefully retreat to the shadows and into my devotion to her.

Somehow, I found Miss. She brings together a worldliness, unafraid to taste everything and to follow passions. Her knowledge, interests, inclination to discover and explore, and to create are inspirational to me, as someone who can too easily dwell in his comfort zone unless pushed.

She draws me out of the darkness of my doubts and into the light of her control. My submission gives me meaning, a way of defining who I am and how I can make sense of the expression of my sexual needs.

She has taken that need and given me a purpose and, by showing me how that purpose can be lived, and not just put up with, she make us fit together like a single entity with a common purpose. Her, me, her dominance and my submission are the four chambers of a heart. We push and pull, give and receive, between us we give life to the external shells seen by the outside world.


Call screening

For the listener, who listens in the snow, 
And, nothing himself, beholds 
Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.
From The Snowman by Wallace Stevens

We look forward to these daily shows, trapped in the ratios of phone screens and laptops. I want to get as close to the camera as I can, but it distorts and then blacks out, and I sit back down. We talk about the day’s events, and I hear them and I also don’t hear them, because I’m looking at you. It is as though what we have is so intense, I cannot spare more than one sense at a time to take it all in. I have to listen hard to parse and process not peer at the pixels in wonder at how beautiful you are and how you can be all so far away and yet right here.

And when there are no words, there are pictures without sound. Looking into you as though there were no barrier between us. An involuntary twitch of the lips I reciprocate, it’s the kiss that is blown half way around the world in an instant. A mouth whose movements I know and eyes that were the first thing I noticed and still are, every time we speak.

And sometimes we turn off the pictures, to listen to the sound of each other breathing. The pauses, the catch in your voice, as you tell me about the ways we will spoon, when the moment is here when we finally break the Fourth Wall. When the third, fourth and fifth senses will finally be as fulfilled in three dimensions. Where your hands will be and where you will place mine. I shift in my seat, uncomfortable now until I hear you say:

“Are you as turned on as I am?”
“Can I touch it?”

And we come in a minute.

You are not here and yet your spirit is so intensely here, I don’t notice the delays or ISDN glitches; you are the opposite of the rest of my life which is ever-present and yet makes the same impression as a pebble on the surface of a lake. That is the nothing that is not there, you are the nothing that is.

If not now…

“Tell me about it”


“You heard.”

“Well, I’m in my corner office on the 53rd floor. I’m at my desk…”

“What are you wearing, slut?”

“Suit, shoes-”

“You’ll tell me properly if you know what’s good for you.”

“The suit is an Anderson & Sheppard basted fitting in a 15 ounce navy cloth, with alternating beaded stripes. The shoes-”

“Don’t be cute with me, bratty slut. How does it feel when you wear it, sitting your big chair. That oh-so-expensive cloth gently cupping your balls and cock as you talk with your mistress.”

“Well, I-”

“Stand up. Look out at the office floor, between the gaps in the frosted glass. How many people are out there?”

“A hundred, hundred and fifty maybe? I haven’t counted, I-”

“You know every one of them, because you picked them by hand. They’d all run through fire for you, big man that you are. With your five thousand pound suits filled with a cock that gets hard just thinking of the money they’re making for you. Don’t tell me you haven’t thought of which ones you’d like to fuck across your big desk, both the boys and girls. Are you getting hard and drippy being told this, dirty bitch?

“Touch it. Rub it slowly. And shut the fuck up and listen as I tell you what I’m going to do.

“I’m coming down there with a big fucking pair of scissors – proper tailor’s shears – and I’m coming right into your office. You’re going to be waiting for me, standing, arms in front of you, leaning against the window, looking at me, holding out your belt. I’m not going to make eye contact with you yet, fucker – I’ll take that belt and turn you into the wall, hard, feel my weight at your shoulder, your face pressed into the cold glass as I cuff you with the belt like a kid in a drugs bust. Prissy, privileged white boy getting his collar felt, who’s going get some treatment before I’m through with you.

“So we’ll make the perp walk a bit easier, shall we? You’re going to whimper when you feel me push those bound hands higher up your back, but you’ll shut up damn quick when you feel the cold blade down the back of those expensive pants. I will cut through to the skin, you’ll shudder as you feel the blade pass between your ass cheeks and so close to the perineum you might mistake it for a tongue. Then, I’ll get furious. I’ll slash, tear and lacerate those fancy-pants and leave you exposed for the total slut you really are. No doubt you’ll get hard from me doing that, dirty fucktoy. But I’m not done by a long way.

“I’ll pull the jacket straight back, propping you up with my knee and stretch you. You’re going to feel my hands everywhere inside that Thomas Pink shirt. Pulling and pinching your slutty hard nipples, pressing at your throat and windpipe. I’m going to gouge strips so deep down your back you’ll think you’re wearing pinstripe skin. But you are going to fucking love it. As I push you up the window when I tear at that flesh, I know I’ll sense your swollen cock press against the glass, splayed, crushed, throbbing and seeping precum from its shiny head. Am I close to what you were thinking about, fucktoy?

“Don’t speak. Don’t say a fucking word. Keep rubbing yourself. Slip a finger inside those merino wool layers and feel the strain at your underpants. You’ll be ready to smash plates with that thing when I’m through with you. Feel it pulse. You want to let it out, grab it, wank it, feel that hungry flesh and my dirty tongue in your ear. But it’s going to stay there until I say, because your needs mean nothing. I need to hear you tell me you get this.”

“This is your cock, ma’am. I’m only here to serve you. Take me and use me.”

“Not today, Fucktoy. But soon. When you’re least expecting it…”


Back on the chain gang

Since the start of my submission to Violet, I’ve been wanting to wear a chastity device as part of our D/s. We discussed it in our contract, decided the sort of cage we wanted, and made the purchase; after a slight img_5484size mix-up, I was able to wear the cage for her for the first time this week.

The use of chastity as a short-term expression of control is important to both of us. While Violet doesn’t eroticise denial as such, we wanted the offering of my orgasm control to her to be a key feature of our D/s. I have written previously on a now-discontinued blog about my first experience of cage wearing, and so could approach it second time around with more knowledge and experience. But with also the realisation that the symbolism runs deeper than even I appreciated at the time.

I was thinking of how, although it is early days yet, I feel so much more enabled in this cage. Not wishing to overthink this, but I can’t help thinking of my cages as metaphors for my D/s experiences – not least because they are intimately connected with them.
My first cage was capricious, sharp in places, uncomfortable unless propped with supporting briefs and strategically placed padding to prevent ring pinching and the lock nipping the top of the cock, even when closed. It made wearing it an ordeal at times, like the relationship it was bought for. Looking back I wonder why I put up with it – I thought all cages were like that.

img_5485By comparison this cage is so smooth. It feels nicely weighty, fits well, no sharp surprises and no constant need to build Heath-Robinson contraptions to keep it all in place. I don’t feel impeded – none of that sharp intake of breath when I stand up, in case of a stabbing shot of pain. Just the warm weight of a beautiful burden between my legs that makes me think of her when I feel it and the importance of my submission.

Building on this, I realise what I am doing is recalibrating my submission, away from old terms and tropes, discovering a new way of talking about a new experience. The temptation would be to think of doing things like you used to, but the progress of our D/s has been about reclaiming it from those people in our past who might have tainted it or made us assume it had to be one particular imperfect way.

I reject that. This can be how we want it to be. I love our way of doing it because it is ours – we are making it anew how we want. We are taking back control.


Sinful Sunday 354: I’m your man

If you want a lover

I’ll do anything you ask me to

And if you want another kind of love

I’ll wear a mask for you

If you want a partner, take my hand, or

If you want to strike me down in anger

Here I stand

I’m your man


I’d crawl to you baby and I’d fall at your feet

And I’d howl at your beauty like a dog in heat

And I’d claw at your heart, and I’d tear at your sheet

I’d say please (please)

I’m your man

Leonard Cohen


See who else is on heat this week by clicking on the lips below…

Sinful Sunday
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Coming and going

I have risen and left you sleeping. I slip my cage on and am ready to face the day. It is a deceptively cool mediterranean early morning and the dew sits thick on the grass,  bursting through the broken path that winds steeply to our door. Outside the umbrella pines and groves of olive trees cast shade that we will welcome in the high heat of the afternoon.

It’s a little chilly to be wearing nothing, but it helps to get the tiny cage on, my cock shrinking rapidly after the warmth of our bed. The temperature adds to my sense of feeling small all over. The stone flags in the kitchen feel cold and rough on my bare feet, as I fill the kettle. A cafetiere of thick, black coffee and flakey croissants to be served at the rough wooden table that dominates the room.

I’m not expecting you down yet, so feel suddenly exposed when you appear in nightdress and bathrobe at my back. I am standing at the kitchen countertop, hands resting on the stained wooden boards, as you come up behind me. Your cheek is warm as it presses into my back and I am suddenly aware of how cold my skin has become, and how it responds to the warmth of your flesh. Both your hands slip around my hips and rest upon the cage, your right hand holding the metal shaft itself, the left cupping the slightly raised and swollen balls.

You pull one of my hands back and under your night dress, pressing my fingers up into your messy cunt. I feel the heat of your breath intensify on my back and my cock flickers in its cage. Barred like a prisoner, I am an amputee imagining a phantom limb. I quickly fill my metal stump and feel the strain backing up inside me. You keep hold of the cage and lead me to the table, pushing me up against its edge. You kiss me and ease me back: “lie down, love, and focus on me”, you coo.

And I am spread upon the hard wooden table, four limbs hanging over its edge. And you set to work with your rope. Lashing my wrists under the table, you link up the rope to bind each ankle to a table leg. And you calmly fetch your lovingly prepared breakfast, and sit at the end to eat at leisure, sat between my legs, just the top of your head visible.

I don’t know how long you take, but it seems forever. I can hear you, out of sight, eating and drinking, taking your time as I feel the bindings on my wrists start to bite. My ankles are feeling a bit numb as you rise. Gently you cup my balls again, and rest the bottom of your full mug of coffee on the cage; the heat transfers quickly and soon my cock is warm, and then hot, from your drink. Instinctively, I writhe as the heat moves from swelling my cock to heating it. You withdraw and I relax, but now wide-eyed as I know what the game is.

Throughout the morning, you continue to work around me, taking every opportunity to tease or torture my caged member. A feather duster and vacuum cleaner as you clean the room, to tickle and suction; a bunch of herbs and a couple of raps from the spatula as you sear the meat for our slow-cooked stew; or a quick flick as you pass, the anticipation building. Until finally, after what seems like days, and with the loss of feeling almost complete in my external extremities, you stand naked before me, allowing your breasts to fall and smother the prisoner.

And you rub, enfolding the stub of my manhood in your capacious breasts, their warmth and softness stirring new life into its limited sphere of movement. As you work it, you bend and kiss my lower belly and thighs, leaving imprints of your lips like seeds in a flower bed. The numbness in my limbs has immobilised me completely except for my total focus at its core. As I lift my hips instinctively with your movement, the contrast between paralysis and super sensitivity in different parts of my body is putting my brain into overdrive. Heart racing, dry-mouth and shallow breathing, I feel myself struggling to process the feelings inside me. I ache, I hurt, I desire I crave, I need closure on this overstimulation of the senses.

And you have the key, fitted into the barrel lock, it pops and the metal sheath slides in your hand. Barely is it off than I have risen to full erection, my red, desperate cock straining to reach the skies before it is encased again, this time in the warmth of your mouth.

Gripping tighter on the rope as if to tear the table in two I can only lie as you lick and tease my tumescence, slowly sucking in deep and then releasing to tongue the tip with staccato flicks. All the while reminding me who owns my cock, and who can tell me when to come.

I close my eyes and give into the sensory collapse, unable to bear it any more, desperately straining not to come. From the distance, as though shouting through water, at last I hear your voice, the simple, single word: “come”.

And I am gone.  Spent and busted like a gambler’s luck. Ruined and broken like the winding path that led me here.