Sinful Sunday 363: Sinful Bunday

Today I’ve been baking hot cross buns in preparation for Easter. It’s hot work in a kitchen, all that pounding and baking. And I always like to have a couple of spare buns, just in case…

Find out who else has been trying to get a rise by clicking on the lips below.

Sinful Sunday

Let me be…

the shoreline carved by the sea, waves that pound and break me down, drag me under and rebuild me, far away, where I am something new.

a brimming cup into which you drip to see the surface tension stretch until it splits and spills, running in rivers down the edge.

crumbs on a plate you press greedily with your tongue to gather and savour, licking your lips to get the last of them.

a coin you roll to the edge of the ledge of an arcade Penny Falls, rhythmically bumped from behind, stubborn to drop.

the wave of heat from an opened oven door; inside the risen rolls, brown and round, bursting with seeds. When cooled, you break them open to reveal the soft, warm and moist centre.

the pile on a carpet between naked toes that cushions your step and feels like a meadow when you close your eyes.

Sinful Sunday 362: dirty

This week I had a lovely couple of days away at a hotel retreat in the dramatic Cheshire countryside. It was great to get away from it all. Soak up a little of the atmosphere in a relaxing break. 

I’m not saying the Skype with @fireandhoney was dirty but I had to take a bath afterwards. 

See who else is making a splash this week by clicking on the lips below. 

Sinful Sunday

Weights and measures

This week, my first collar arrived in the post. With trembling hands, and with Miss @fireandhoney on Skype, I put it on. Miss and I just looked at each other across the miles, our faces side by side in flickering pixels, with moist eyes and lumpy throats. It was one of the most joyous occasions of my life, and after only four days, I have noticed a change in my whole approach to our D/s that is significant. It has made me consider the whole nature of the symbols and signifiers we use in our discourse, their weight and meaning.

Up to this point, I had been a periodic cage-wearer, though strictly a wader in the shallow end of that particular pool – a symbol of submission not a permanent barrier to touching. When Miss and I started our adventure, getting a cage seemed a natural priority, because it was how I had, to that point, learned to measure my submission. Although my new cage was considerably more comfortable and less ‘argumentative’ than Mk I, it was not without its moments of working loose, pinching and catching and general eye-popping jiggery-pokery. But this came with the territory, I believed.

By contrast, the collar was easy. It comes off and on quickly and it is discreet (well, my one is, eschewing, as I have, the studs, seams and chromework that characterise some collars). But for that it is no less present than the cage, though considerably lighter. More to the point, it has made me realise a paradox at the heart of my submission: the cage was making it all about me.

I’ve remarked elsewhere that cages should really be called anti-chastity devices, because they are the worst possible thing to wear if you are actually trying not to get aroused. Like a big red button that says DON’T PRESS THIS! It is deliberately trying to tempt you as a form of trial, which can be tremendous fun for both parties. And the sense of ritual, of locking and controlling is hugely sexy – and many a D gets off on the prospect/thought/reality of the erotic stress their s is under. A beautiful symbiosis under the right circumstances.

You can see, of course, the bonus effect of this play is to create anxieties in the mind of the cage wearer about orgasm expectation. For the long term chastity follower, this doesn’t so much arise (nor does much else, I believe), but in the mind of the casual cage wearer, it becomes the focus of concern, and a seemingly constant negotiation, even if tacit or unspoken.

As soon as I put the collar on, I felt almost a different mindset take over. Immediately my internalised focus on my cock vanished and I found myself much more able to take a broader view of my submission and the needs of Miss – which are, after all, primary. It was like someone had suddenly shown me the answer to a particularly complicated sum, and I realised I had known it all the time.

Removing the cage took my cock out of the equation, and made the cage now one of a number of tools we have to play with, when dialling up or down the mood, instead of a binary off/on, locked/unlocked, denial/release.

It has to be said this is probably exacerbated in the case of long-distance relationships, where symbols, rituals, words and the imagination have to do a lot of the heavy lifting that daily skin-on-skin would take care of.

But by realigning my focus where it should be, I also realised how much more receptive I was to subtle changes in mood, how my awareness grew of Miss’s needs and how she wanted the dynamic to work at that particular moment.

Miss had known this all along – knew I had to reconnect with my cage in order to get to the point where I realised my focus on it as a tool of submission was holding me back. The collar was there waiting for me when I was ready to move to it. And having put it on, I find it fits me beautifully now.

Sinful Sunday 361: Feeling my collar

The highlight of this week was, no doubt, the arrival of my collar. Bought after a lot of discussion with @Fireandhoney, it is absolutely perfect. I’ve been wearing it off and on all week, savouring its calming effect on me and the multiplicity of meanings it has for me when I wear it. 

This week’s main pic also shows the ‘hierarchy of control’ I like to use with Miss. The collar for ownership, the clamps for enjoying pain at her favour and the cage for control. Top to bottom, I feel fully dressed like this. 

Find out who else has been getting more than their collar felt by clicking on the lips below. 

Sinful Sunday

Hotel, imagined (3): Razor’s edge.

I imagine it happens shortly after we have showered and I have washed you. In my fantasy it is a cutthroat razor. I lie on my back on the bed, propped up on my elbows while you sharpen it on the leather strop with a practised wristy flick.

To keep me still you have strapped me to a spreader bar. It doesn’t really help my position but it does make me feel more vulnerable.

As directed, I drop my legs over the end of the bed. I watch you work up the lather, starting to get aroused, which will actually help the process.

You have a boar’s bristle shaving brush. Perfect for the sandpaper skin of a man’s face, but it feels like sandpaper itself down there.

Scooping the lather, you carefully splodge and circle it all around my groin and balls with the brush in artistic sweeps. You are enjoying this – the act and my apprehension, occasional winces caused by the poke of a bristle. And then you are ready.

Your face is so close I can feel your breath on my skin as you concentrate. My swelling cock surges as the cold steel starts to scrape the inside of my thighs.

Carefully cradling my ball sac, you lift and drag the razor across my kid-soft perineum and under the sac itself, letting it gently fall off the blade as you stroke up.

You work around the balls, up the base of the cock where there are still a few hairs. And you just rest the blade on my tumescence. It is pulsing, straining against the steel and you are looking into my eyes with intent. I am so aroused at your power, I want to throw myself at your feet.

Instead you put down the razor and hoist the spreader, tipping my legs back over my head. My ass is completely at your mercy.

I can’t see anything any more but just have to rely on touch. And the blade feels cold slipped between my ass cheeks, right up to the rim. My cock shrinks a bit, instinctively, but it feels so tingly as you scrape at the skin between my ass cheeks, I’m soon hard again. From my curled position, it hangs like a sword of Damocles, twitching in my line of sight.

You pause. You look at me and whisper: “you can touch it if you like”.

And I gratefully stroke my yearning cock as you shave the rest of my ass and upper legs. I have to move so agonisingly slowly because don’t want to nudge you and cut me.

When you are done, you take the brush and rub it between my balls and ass hole. Its roughness is like a savage tongue.

You then start to tap my exposed asshole with the brush, stinging the fresh pink flesh. I then watch with delicious helplessness as you suck the slim handle end before starting to insert it in my ass.

“Keep stroking, little one” you coo, “open up for me, good boy”.

And it’s in. I grip it.

You tip it so it presses on and off my prostate.

And then slowly take my balls in your mouth.

You suck and hum and the warmth and vibration and the brush and my stroking and I am so close.

You say, mouth half full, “not until I release you”.

And you are sucking so hard now and I’m begging for release. Pleading as I furiously stroke my cock, ridged with veins and swollen with purpose.

And finally as you open your mouth, you utter the words “come, baby” letting the balls fall from your mouth. And you press hard on the brush as I shoot hot cum all over my own face and chest.

So clean underneath, so dirty up top.

My ass, shaved and gleaming. And my face covered in cum, smeared in by your fingers. “Open up, baby” and you scrape the cum off your fingers against my teeth, letting it pool in the back of my throat.

“Good boy. I want you to stay like that while I read”.

Hotel, imagined (2)

For Violet on the occasion of her birthday. With love.

The pile of the carpet pushes up between my toes like a verdant lawn; with my eyes closed, I can almost feel summer heat as I stand, naked, on the balls of my feet. The tip of your toes pokes me just below the crease of my ass, as you sit behind me, watching and waiting. I rock, but don’t crumple. I won’t break until I’m ready to be your Little One. But you’re going to test me until I surrender – you own my mind but sometimes my body needs to be pushed until it remembers its yours. Forced into a tiny space. Muscle memory.

The lawn is carpet once more and the sun’s rays the warmth from the hotel’s heater. Two whole days to serve you and drain myself of anything I haven’t yet handed over. I’m back in the room and my body is testament to a punishing series of questions you have asked, needing me to finally respond that I don’t know, I don’t have any more answers, that I’m too tired to resist and I just need to feel broken and small.

But not yet. I’m still a tall tree in a stiff breeze, standing before you, tiptoed, fingers woven and clutching the back of my neck, and the pain is creeping up my shins and into my thighs. I’m hurting for you in the only way I haven’t yet, the last 48 hours a blur of smacks and sweet wet kisses, clawed throat holds and cradled suckling, my mind sprawled like a tiger skin rug before the flames from your fire.

And the room has gone. I’m on a crumbling path that leads to that wild cabin on the brow of the wooded hill. The climb is steep and my knees buckle with the load I bear. Three feet from the door I feel myself falling through the front in slow motion, until my skin feels soft prickles of the carpeted floor. Behind me I hear the last contents of my pack fall and start their inexorable trip back down the slope, slipping away, and I’m now alone in the vastness of an eternal forest whose ancient boughs loom and loop over the roof outside.

Behind my head I can hear you at the door.

“Open up for me, honey”

I lie curled and unable to answer, drawn to the warmth and security of the tiny shack in the huge woods. I feel two wet fingers pushing into my core and I shut my eyes to everything but the scraping of the trees overhead, the cooing of the birds in your voice as you press me into the shape I have been longing to find.