If not now…

“Tell me about it”

“What?”

“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…”

 

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The Waiting Room – part 3

 

This is the final part of a three part story. For part one, click here. For part two, click here.

I was prepared for this, but I wasn’t prepared for this. You have been prepared for everything. I sit on the edge of the bed but I barely feel I am touching it. The shredded knickers now feel tight across my cock, which has swollen like fruit in the sun. The weight in my guts has gone. My neck is stiff, my shoulders feel shot through with a dull ache, and I can feel bruising rise around my face and upper body. But I feel a lightness in my limbs that I haven’t felt in years and a sudden clarity like I’m finally seeing a landscape after fog has lifted.

You are kneeling behind me, pressing a cool cloth to my shoulder. Beneath it, four marks that in a few years might look like the result of a fall, but might also be construed as a letter ‘M’ if you were looking to see a pattern. Four strokes as though from a miniscule cane or a paw scratch from a wildcat. A couple of them were controlled – deliberate, shallow slices that burst the ripened skin. The other two shakier, one slightly gouged as though a shaking hand was holding the knife, struggling to press as the bearer was overwhelmed with a force greater even than her desire to see the marked flesh.

I don’t know how long we sit like this. I’ve lost all track of the hours that have passed since I entered this room. This anonymous, mass-produced space that has sucked all reference points from it, including time itself. This stasis is shifted by a single press of soft, dry lips on my scabbing shoulder and gentle hands at my neck, drawing up the remains of the bra into a rudimentary gag. I’m jerked out of my reveries by a sharp tug backwards of my head. Your hands tying the errant strands of straps, hooks and corsetry.

“You’ve been a good boy today. I’m proud of you.”

Those are the longed-for words that now burst like whisky through my chest. Your voice is gentle but even, in tone, pitch and pace. It’s granite wrapped in silk.

“Stand up and slip those knickers off for me, pet.”

And here I stand, once again looking at the floor, my back to you, with the saliva building in my mouth, offering a pair of breached panties for your use. You take them and, pulling back on my arms, slip them up to my elbows as a connecting strap behind my back. With one hand holding the strap, you can pull and twist to control my hands like a marionette. But now, you slip your own lubed fingers under my arm, running them between my legs.

Gently, you cup my balls and rub across them with your thumb, and run my cock teasingly through your fingers, smearing greasy prints along its increasing length. You are kissing my scarred shoulder as you work me to tumescence with increasing vigour. My breathing is now so hard yet muffled, and the moans are stifled with a gentle tug at the gag from behind. Your voice is so close I can almost feel your tongue in my ear.

“Tell me how you want it, fucktoy. Tell me how much you want to come”, your breath like a furness now, over my ears and neck, your tongue tracing the ridge of my trapezium.

“I want to come, ma’am.”

“Say it again, slut”

“I WANT to come.” Then “Ma’am” added as a desperate afterthought, as though it will tip the balance in your decision. Your hand lets go, leaving my hard cock straining in its upward trajectory, and you squeeze my nipples hard, which are still indented from the clamps.

“Touch it for me, slut. Stroke it like I want you to. Slow, long, deep strokes. Feel me in every inch you pull.”

I touch and connect, suddenly taken with the need to draw this desire from me. My knees are shaking, and feel like they will buckle soon, I stroke with urgency, feeling every receptor in my cock sending electric impulses through my whole body. Yet it feels heavy with a burden, like a length of lead piping.

“Faster”

And your tongue now moves to the other shoulder. You open your mouth and I can feel your teeth resting on its surface, squeezing gently as if testing for pressure points or weaknesses. I’m light headed from the lack of extra oxygen I need, and instinctively bite at the gag, trying to lift it with my tongue, feeling it snap back as I let go. One way or another I need this to end. I no longer care how, I just need you to take this away from me. This arousal that started as a worm in my guts and has now blown into a thrashing cobra on which I’m struggling to stay aboard.

I stroke on harder, quicker, blowing fiercely through the gag, and through the pain in my body, driven by the furious need in my cock to find that cliff edge. Where I can dive beyond this bodily self, into the safety of that space.

“Please let me come, ma’am” I now whimper, no longer even sure if you hear me.

“Not yet, slut. You need to work harder.”

“PLEASE”

“NO”

Then your teeth are back in my flesh, slightly deeper.

“Oh, God…”

And you haul hard on the straps and my elbows are pulled tight to my side, hands fly away from my cock leaving it flapping like a flag in the breeze.

“Oh pleasepleaseplease…”

“Touch. It. Again. GENTLY”. The ironic fierceness in that last word not lost on my otherwise spinning mind. I need to refocus. For you.

I touch myself gingerly, picking it up like a cudgel and gripping with a new sense of purpose and skill. And I stroke, riding the foreskin harder, drawing down the precum from its weeping eye, ears alert to your commands, conscious of the grip on my shoulder, but already the cliff edge is here and I need to feel myself free falling. You are now sensing everything with me, and bark low in my ear:

“NO”

But soon even I will be powerless to stop piling over into blue oblivion. My fingers feel like they’re trying to pull back on the reins, as the runaway force of my desire bounces roughly over the headleads of those cliffs.

Then, finally, in my ear you whisper “now” and I can give in to those forces greater than me, my body and, ultimately, my mind. I’m flying free as you bite down hard on my shoulder and pull at the straps, releasing my grip on my pumping cock that is strewing my seed like an irrigation sprinkler, kicking bursts of fiery liquid onto scorched earth.

It’s like the final searing in a series of brands, burning the pain into my shoulders, my chest, my body and my cock. I slump to my knees, almost hanging off the strap you hold me by, spent, broken and ruined as the orgasm you have just dealt me. I’m lying curled up my own fluid like a lanced boil, withering visibly each second. The carpet now feels as harsh as the light streaming through the gap in the curtains. And your fingers at last unhook the sopping gag from my mouth, releasing a low outpouring of cries and anguish and desire and pain, and joy and hurt and bafflement at how many emotions can pour out of a man so entirely drained of all reserves of energy and resistance. There is no ‘I’ any more. It feels like there is no space left for me in this claustrophobic room where everything I have lies spent on the ground.

I am awake. I am in the bed. Shivering slightly. And alone. Without looking I can sense my utter solitude in this room. My eye is caught by the flicker of a new message on the tablet on the bedside table. As I stretch to reach it, I am reminded of every stroke and their meaning across my tired frame.

“You did well, pet. Better than I dared hope for a novice. I’ve watched the video and the photos Cindy took for me. Your performance has made this so real – I hope it felt as real for you at the time. It certainly looked it, from what I can see.

“I hope you don’t feel disappointed, pet, because this is as real as it gets. We play for real, but our desires, and the urge to get what we need from each other, live inside us. There is no place where ‘we’ live. There is no ‘next’. There is no waiting room where we sit in anticipation of the real thing. This is the space where we live.

Yours, M”

 

The Waiting Room – part two

This is a continuation of a previous story – click here for part one.

What are you waiting for?

I realise that message has been on my screen for several minutes. I read the instructions and it’s now I notice the chair, a low ottoman positioned three feet from the end of the bed. I reply:

“I am your owned little slut.”

I put down the tablet and kneel in front of the chaise longue, head down as required, but I can see the opening door reflected in the TV. I close my eyes and breathe deeply, suddenly aware of my rising and falling chest, the cool air on the bare arms at my side. And the slight tremble in my fingers as the door clicks shut. I swallow hard. I feel your presence at my shoulder. I look at the carpet, trying to keep my breathing even and my body alert, ready to respond.

A pair of black Fuck Me shoes containing sheer black stockinged feet appear in front of me. They shift slightly as you sit, and then slide apart as your legs spread wide. I focus on a spot on the carpet in front of the chair between your knees. We sit like this for maybe 30 seconds, but it feels like forever. My stomach starts to cramp under the sheer tension of wanting someone to break this thick silence. Eventually, you speak:

“Look at me”

Slowly my eyes rise to meet yours, past the sheer stockings and a black leather one-piece corset and skirt. Above the pushed-up breasts your face is almost hidden by jet black sunglasses and a fountain of fawn hair that sits on your shoulders. Dark, heavily painted lips, somewhere between blood and red wine. Somehow you seem taller than the cropped images and censored scenes you’ve allowed me to see, bigger, more overwhelming from my prone position. To reinforce this you lean down and whisper into my face:

“Do you have something to say?”

All through today’s journey I have been memorising the lines I’ve prepared and which I now hope are good enough for you.

“I am your fucktoy. I’ve given myself to you in my thoughts and daily practice, but I’ve come here today with no expectations except to be used for your pleasure, as you see fit. My body, my cock, my orgasms are yours. Take me and use me and leave me with nothing but the pleasure of having served you.”

Your face still inches from mine, you deftly clip a clamp to each of my nipples, linked by a chain, with a threaded bolt on each to adjust the tension. The setting is in the middle, which means I feel them but will stop noticing unless they are tightened. A ‘reducer’ to ground me a little and create a baseline for the pain.

You continue to lock eyes and bring out a MagicBullet. It vibrates almost imperceptibly until you press the point into each nipple, between and around the clamp, and it feels like I’m grasping an electric fence. I feel a dry heave starting in my guts and I’m trying to control the roll in my shoulders, but the shivers in my neck betray me. You alternate between sides, and each time you switch, you tighten the clamp. I gasp and that feeling of nervous sickness moves lower, I feel it sat in my groin, I feel terrified of letting go. It is so intense: you, me, the clamps, the pain and the buzz and the touch of the bullet, your heavy breath, the prickling carpet burning my knees, so I look up because I need to focus on the plain expanse of ceiling as I groan low, long and hard through bitten lips and clamped jaws.

You open me up with a thumb in my mouth and I gratefully, instinctually suck it as something to cling to with my tongue and my mind, and now you are holding my jaw with the rest of your hand. A single tear has tracked down onto your forefinger as the buzzing at my chest ceases and I falter; I can’t seem to concentrate on kneeling right, as though I can’t work out which way is up. You are now holding me up with your hand and from the force of your breath I sense a growling from somewhere deep inside. You are pressing the MagicBullet between your legs with your other hand.

You push forward into me, like a shoulder charge frozen at the moment of impact as your straightened arm presses the relentless toy harder, for longer. I feel the pulsing pushing through you into me. Your other hand is now cradling the back of my head, and I’m trying to support our weight kneeling, but still reeling from everything, just a foot from the edge of the bed. And I feel the waves of your arousal beating through you, each one thrusts up into my neck, each one a tighter grab of my hair, your nails digging deeper into the flesh of my nape.

And then we are over, you finally push me backwards into the edge of the bed as you launch off the chair, possessed, your groin in my face grinding my head down into the bed, your body folded over me, the sudden smothering of my face with your slavering cunt barely gives me time to breathe. Between your hungry thrusts I can hear your voice  commanding me to “fucking lick me, you fucking bitch”, and from instinct I paddle my flat tongue against you, pressing your hard, swollen clit and flicking inside you with the tip. But soon I’m little more than a mounted tongue as you fuck my face with urgency, and it feels like you’re going to break my neck. My head is wrapped over the edge of the mattress, the rest of me following onto the floor like a Dali watch.

Every.

Thrust.

Slams.

My.

Head.

Into.

The.

Mattress.

Every breath I draw is between your legs, the air sticky with the wetness of your aroma. Part of me considers calling upon THAT word, bailing out to breathe. But deeper inside I find a focus, and feel like I’m falling into a controlled tailspin that turns alternately night and day until suddenly I KNOW everything is all right. This is fine because you have led me to a place of safety.

At some point I realise we have finished up on the floor, and you are now sat over me yet I feel so in control of myself, it’s like our moods are merging in concert. I seem to anticipate your moves, and I can no longer tell whether I am responding to them or dictating them. This is what I have come for, and I cry out for that pain you promised. Hit me, hit me harder, build up a frenzy of famished biting – claw and pound my body with fists, knuckles, wrists and anything you have free that can connect. Grind me into the ground. I’m the nothing that is not there and the nothing that is. A blissed-out oblation.

I don’t know how long I’ve been here. I’m only half aware of where I am, now lying in the recovery position, my breathing easier and my mind seems shrouded by a veil, with sensations occasionally billowing the sides.

Then I feel the cold of the paring knife against me, but I’m not afraid. You are tracing arabesques across my back with the lightest drag of the tip. A slip, and the bra is released by the blade. Then I feel it snagging, pricking then slitting the seat of the knickers. I’m no longer wary of the cut of the steel, I am completely immobilised by trust. A snap of latex gloves and I feel you push a plasticised finger through the hole and inside me – I’m so relaxed it slips on the sweat and inside, and you quickly press on my prostate, testing by my response until you find it. It slides me deeper into the anaesthetic of submission, each press holds me down and seems to skewer my whole body. I try to wriggle but the drug is too strong – I’m feeling any power drain out of me, and the rhythm of pump-and-release is building a tension so tight inside me, I need to feel everything harder. I need to be opened up to you completely.

The knife is no longer cold. I’m willing you to do it. And as you hold me firm with your gloved forefinger, you mark me in the way that completes me.

To be continued…

Getting nippy

I wanted to write something about clamping, because I am aware I do it a lot, and I tweet it a fair bit – pics of me clamped up, in adjustable clamps with a chain between. I’m not doing this to justify myself, but to explain why and what it does. Because I don’t know if this what most people do or not; I imagine that most clamps are probably sold to be used in sex by couples, by either partner.

Screenshot_20171205-004139So here’s how it works for me. I find that just as sometimes you get build up of horniness, which you want to relieve by sex or wanking (unless you want to enjoy the denial), I get a build up of – well, I don’t know what it is. I know I have a kink for pain, and it’s like a sexual frustration and clamping is the closest I can come to wanking. It’s a release – those good feelz when the clamps dig in.

I always like to overthink and overanalyse things because, hey, it’s what I do. But there is a part of me that worries this sounds remarkably like self-harming, cutting – that idea of pain releasing something. And I think it’s good to have an awareness of this, because I imagine it can, potentially, escalate, if I let it.

But there is also a sexy about it that makes it different from self-harming; I like the feel of them on my body and the way the chain hangs. Actually, unless you put them on full setting, you don’t notice them after 5 minutes or so – and I don’t put them on full clamp, because it would be over too quickly before it became too much – I like the slow release of tension.

So what is the feeling or the buzz I get? It’s like it slows me down – when I feel a bit needy for the pain, I get a little hyper (what I used to call Giddy Kipper when I was with my former Domme – excitable, slightly bratty in D/s terms), like I’ve got a nervous energy – I can’t sit still. I’m a little manic. Putting those clamps on just is like a brake. The pinching just restrains me and grounds me – like earthing an appliance.

Sometimes it makes me a bit horny but other times it just takes the edge off and allows me to calm down. Although it seems related to and like sexual urges, there doesn’t seem to be a direct link to horniness levels. I can be horny and not want clamping and vice versa.

I’m still exploring it, tbh, and I find it goes in phases. Right now I feel ‘pinchy’ quite a lot of the time. But I am sure it will pass into a non-pinchy phase – and I’m going to look out for any patterns I can spot. Because I find my kinks are all about self-learning – about both my body and my mind, and what they both need.

Ten

The whip grips the folds of my flesh as it unfolds with a sting in the tail. I grip the folds of sheets, pulling harder, my hands apart, above my head, legs spread and lashed to the bedstead. Again. I count. Softer now, barely audible, until she’ll choke the word louder from my throat.

“Three”.

And I bury myself into the covers, my hips trying to hide from the next stroke.

“Four”

I run my tongue over cracked lips. And the air is suddenly cool on my sodden face, smeared with tears, spit and sweat, as she tugs back my head with a handful of hair. Her own blood-red cupid’s bow at my ear, softly: “I. Can’t. Hear. You.”

“FOUR”.

“Better. Bitch”

I can feel the welt rising at the top of the back of my leg, every time it touches the curve of my ass there’s an electric shock. I flinch. I swear. I can feel my face falling. I can’t do this.

“five?”

Then I’m alive to her. An adrenaline shot like whisky surges through me, before she can move I howl “FIVE. FIVE FIVE FIVE”. My shoulders now braced, hips cocked like a breech-loading gun, the feelings flowing to my fingers. I. Am. Alive.

I don’t bow, I don’t bend – my flesh will mend, the bones will yield but not break. When the blow lands I feel you filling me, my swelling self tumescent with the urgency of your own need to strike, whip and punish me. The heat of my wounds rising in your own cunt, weeping, pink, freshly flushed flesh.

“Six”

And I’m riding this, moving with the motion of our connected selves. I tingle, overcome with the sensory overload that’s too much for my mind to process. The colour of the walls, every sound deafening – the clock, the street, the creaking stretch of a leather basque.

“Seven”

And by seven there is only the noise of the wind in my ears. A rush as the wider world collapses into us. The bed, this room, nothing else. My pounding heart rattling my ribs, seeming to force out the nubs of my nipples.

“Eight”

I break. I subside into the ties binding me to this bed. Once again that shrouded fog of submission, like laudanum smothering my resistance. I’m held fast, stretched and fully given to you. Bruises mark the scraped skin in orderly rows, as lines written in punishment.

“Nine”

And I’m yours. And you’re mine.