Tiramisu

In the pantheon of things I desire, there’s nothing higher than food full of love that you would bake for me. To watch your touch, fingers filleting and hands grabbing dough, studying the shape of you as you plunge arms into bowls. A stray strand of damp hair I want to tuck behind your ear, as you grind, pummel and stretch skeins of pastry and plump the proving loaves.

Today I want to watch you lay delicate rows of sponge fingers like coral cocks on a bed of fruit laced with tea. Those sure, firm fingers tipped with strawberry red, grab the whisk shaft and bid the cream to form stiff peaks before you smear it over. In this vivid fantasy you make me wait, cowed and patient until it’s ready to serve and you will ladle quivering mouthfuls, rich and moist, into my obedient mouth, licking droplets and crumbs from my chin. I gasp as I taste and those fingers now on me, unwrapping, and beating until you, too, have tasted the cream.

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Break me

My head is bowed but I can feel you’re looking down. Grasping my chin, you move it slowly up to kiss your softness.

Tasting that wet flesh underneath you. You’re keeping the panties just above your knees because you know it excites me and you love the effect your control has on my arousal. My cock, bound inside tight briefs, aching for release, but you make me wait.

As I eat at you I long to press against your feet and ankles but I don’t. Because I need to serve slowly at the pace your arousal demands. Knowing my own throbbing erection doesn’t matter is turning me on even more. I’m so happy and grateful to feel my face smothered in your wet cunt.

I lap at you greedily. You grab my hair.

“Slowly, Little One.”

And I’m calm and admonished, attentive and not getting ahead. Puppy must be obedient and broken in.

I focus on the movement of my tongue. Slowly pressing. Using the pressure, the shape, texture and movement. Whimpering because I feel the shaking in your legs, and you steady yourself on a table. I want to part you wide but my hands are at my side on your orders so the only way I can go deep enough to pleasure you is literally to fuck you with my face.

Your hand on the back of my head assures me and pushes me so deep I’m going to drown. I gasp stolen breaths but this I what I need and I’m so grateful to be used like this.

Push me back. Kneel. Head down. You bark your orders through wheezing breaths. I can see your raised ankles now step out of the panties one at a time.

You grab my head, twisting hard and sudden. I feel you force the panties into my mouth.

“I want you to taste and breathe me”.

Now I’m back on the floor and you tug at my bulging briefs, roughly pulling them halfway down my thighs. Finally free, the aching, bulbous, bloated cock dripping with my own wetness.

And you ride.

Forcing down onto my aching cock, desperate for the release I need. But you will have me first.

Your tits swaying in front of my sweat-drenched face. Gripping my shoulder you push down so hard you will break me.

I need you to break me, your little glass boy.

Clutching my cock with a hungry insistent cunt, I’m being squeezed of any remaining will.

For you I will suffer this pounding because it is what I need.

This brutal love is what makes me live. Broken down and made complete, the paradox of submission.

You come noisily over me, smothering my aching body. Your lips in my ear saying “fill me. My cock needs to fill me, Little One”.

A single, long, squeeze of your cunt and I shudder as all my hunger to serve and submit pours high into your swollen wetness, drawing a sigh and then tears smear my shoulders and cheeks. And I don’t know where yours end and mine begin.

Fresh meat

Gripping your hips hard, the heel of my hand pressing on the bone, raising bruises. My flushed thick cock is hard with that fullness that feels like it starts in the lower back and skewers your guts on the way through. Engorged and twitching, it pushes through your fat puffy lips, buried to the point where pelvis meets pelvis and I will grind your bones into this shaking bed until you tell me to finish us both. I’ll force you wider until I’m riding you like a runaway horse, half on half off and gripping your mane as you buck me. Later, when your slathering cunt is slopping out my cum like a weeping wound, I will feed you breakfast and eat you with my eyes.

Whelp

Sometimes it’s not nights that are lonely but the mornings. Shaken from dreams like a gutter drunk as the summer dawn pierces the curtains. Before the distractions of routine actions: micturition, ablution and reconstruction of the outer body of the inner man shattered by sweated sleep and exhaustion.

These are the minutes I need to be kneeling for you, Miss. Collared and maybe even chained like a farmyard whelp. I can picture You sat on the bed, me kneeling at Your feet both watching the sun rise above the sill. Not worrying about being late, what time’s the train and which meeting is first. Not even needing to look at You but feeling Your hand on my head, then it slips down and wraps around my throat and pulls me against Your legs.

I’ll pause at the door and feel the warmth of the sun on my face like the touch of Your soft flesh. I’m still kneeling inside.

The mind’s heart

They say the greatest sexual organ is the human brain, and anyone who’s done a Long Distance Relationship (LDR) knows the truth of that. Where screen to screen replaces skin on skin, the mind must create the palaces where the senses can feast. And the greatest gift you can give your partner is your imagination.

On Wednesday, Miss and I were scheduled to enjoy a Skype call without any interruptions. She was feeling ‘top end Domme’ (she’ll tell me, day-to-day, how strict she is feeling, as these things tend to be on a spectrum rather than a binary). Uh oh. That meant pain for me for her pleasure, as she gave me the list of things I was to bring. So I was knelt, naked bar my collar, as we dialled in.

In the end, it was blogworthy for the example it provided of how you have to create your D/s across the distance, because rarely does everything happen as you planned: technology, events, real life and the human body can all conspire to skew things, as they can for everything. On this occasion, though Her ardour was not dampened, an oppressive migrane caused by climatic change was preventing Violet from looking at a screen. This was going to have to be a four-sense occasion.

LDR not only teaches you how to cope with these little inconveniences (and how not to blow them out of proportion) but, actually, how to engage positively with shifting conditions to make something new out of the unexpected. We’ve done voice-only play before, so I shut off my eyes and became alive to feeling the flow through her voice, the words landing like impact play, my fingers as her surrogate to deliver her demands and just my voice to feedback the effects.

To give added intensity to the session, Miss likes often to focus attention on just one area and press my resolve until I break and she can gather me to rebuild. Today was only about CBT, so with my cock and balls cinched by my own necktie and pumped until its swollen, ridged surface was like an overflowed candle in a gothic mansion. By narrowing the focus down, it seems to bring an intense intimacy despite the distance; a small area of my body is primed in response to her commands that seem to wash over me like a balm. The headphones reinforce the feeling of her being inside me. It also makes her super sensitive to every aspect of my breathing and every noise I make. I become acutely aware of the literal significance of every utterance – the signal it makes and how it guides her response. Suddenly the world is shut off and we are cocooned in a bubble of our own responses.

My bristling skin is now supersensitive, and we begin the process of driving me to the edge of endurance. Miss likes a technique of alternating between not enough and too much; teasing me to the point of desperation and then making me touch the sensitive areas – cock head, frenulum – with hard rubbing to push through any pleasure into pain.

What is often a disadvantage of the LDR – the lack of physical presence – we have also learned to turn to our advantage: because I have to administer this myself, under strict control and dominance, resistance must be broken hard. The natural response to pain is to stop doing whatever is causing it, but here it is what we want. When you are bound and at the mercy of a D you can simply focus on managing the pain and finding the sub space. When it is self administered, you must overcome your own instincts to stop, to break your own mind yourself and trust Miss to gather the pieces after. As your mind seeks to detach itself from the pain into that special place, the body also seeks to detach itself too – to become a relentless, mechanised tool, an extension of the D, which reinforces the separation. This duality of separation gives an edge to the intensity of the D’s requests and the s’s submission.

By the end, whether I come or not is almost beside the point. I’m curled, whispering into a microphone, tears and snot smearing my face and whimpering pleas. I am both here and not here, I am almost not in my body. There’s almost no sense of any physical sensations just a voice that I cling to, a rope that suspends me above a chasm as I drift into the deliverance of Her.

I have no idea how long this has taken. I am in a timeless state as her voice nurses me back to the world. The sluggishness gives way to a sudden tremendous rejuvenation – I am suddenly aware of how ravenously hungry I am, how intensely I see and feel things, and how wonderfully in thrall I am to Her.

I dress as we say our goodbyes, and I go looking for the world’s biggest pizza. Centred, comfortable, incredibly aware of my own physical self and the renewed inner confidence. I am loved, owned and given over to Her and I will eat like it’s my final meal.

 

The darling bud of May

You’re sleeping now, unaware that you are missing the best part of the day. When the dawn sloughs off the night like a skin and creeps up the garden, inch by inch. The petals unfold, flowers open to received its warmth and turn their heads, raised in adoration at its ineffable energy. The shadows still wear their silk of wetness. It is thrown across the inexorable path of sunrise, twinkling like winking eyes that will close as the tongue of heat ravishes its hidden corners, licking up towards our white stucco walls.

I’ll watch it some days, sitting at the open window when you are sleeping softly under the merest sheets. The delight at its anticipation leaves me a little breathless, as I long for the piercing brightness to make me drop my head and its gradual heat to thin and stir my blood like slow-cooked mulligan.

You stir, and I return. Beneath our tented linen I will burrow and press my tongue, to taste the wetness of your dawn. That spreads and wakens in response to my own reviving roots and demands the full heat of a punishing summer’s day before you will release me, dew-covered and bent to the all-consuming sun.

The unbearable heaviness of being

I kneel every day because it’s a necessary corrective to the stresses of modern life that would leave me bent out of shape. It’s the point of connection with @fireandhoney that transcends 4,000 miles of distance and leaves me feeling in a state of grace. It is also a weathervane for the balance of my submission, which I needed to relearn this week.

It is, of course, a movable feast – I can do it more or less anywhere – but my preferred method is naked, except for my collar, because the sense of needing to be vulnerable and utterly, demonstrably submissive reinforces the feeling I get and the sense of connection to Miss. Which tends to limit the number of places I can practically do it.

Externally it is a form of meditation like any other – clearing the mind, subduing the body, reflecting on the self and trying to attain a sense of calm whilst disconnected from the material world. With D/s kneeling though, of course, it is actually to gain a deeper meaning of my submission, running mental checklists, and testing for my own wellbeing. But it poses an interesting question about its performative nature – how much it is demonstration and how much an actual ritual and, by extension, the whole of my D/s.

Because one of the key features of my submission (and maybe generally, though I’d hate to speak for us all) is the need for validation by my D. I’ve blogged elsewhere about my neediness for attention in the symbiosis of D/s and how its deprivation is the worst punishment to bear. And my kneeling this week revealed to me how much my kneeling had moved from ritual to performance in my needy search for validation. I’d started to not only tell my D about my kneeling, but to photograph and send it to her. Though this was done with the best of intentions, I realise its effect was to dominate the conversation. In driving the discourse with my need for approval I was, effectively, topping from the bottom. Violet’s acute observation had made me realise that probably, deep inside, the image was becoming more important than the ritual. This was performance for approval not kneeling for connection.

So last night I went back to basics to rediscover the lost meaning of that ritual. I cleared my mind to feel the carpet under my legs as I sat slightly parted, feeling the tension of muscles in my thighs, the shiver of self-aware nakedness and, above all, the weight of my need to submit. As you hold the position, aware of just the slow passing of time and the lessening awareness of your own body that blurs into a lump of stretched, aching numbness, it becomes more like a shell that holds something inside, a vessel for the soul, for want of a better word. This is the point you stop thinking about or ‘doing’ the submission and become the submission

This is the beauty of ritual I had gotten away from, taking the time to get to that point of stepping off onto a different plane and it was almost overwhelming. The point I know I’ve reached it is when my body becomes literally too heavy to support. I need to get low, as low as I possibly can to the ground – my doubled-up legs slide into a semi splits that pushes my pelvis into the ground and my shoulders touch the carpet, arms spread out in full supplication. At this point I am simply compelled to be the weight of my own submission in a way that shows I have nothing left to give. Though this looks performative at this point there is no one else here except me and the presence of my D that is now immense and overwhelming and I am rendered immobile in gratitude. It’s my DIY subspace in which I am held secure.