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.

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Bidden

I bring the bowl, bidden by you, to remove the last trace of this dirty world from your feet, towel trailing my forearm as I solemnly progress. It’s the quiet time of the evening. The chiaroscuro of roosting crows that smeared the skies are replaced by the pulsing of crickets. “Cicadan rhythms”, we joke to each other as we prepare for bed. The heat released from the stone walls that have baked all day in this mediterranean sun now gives us warmth.

And in the light of a smokey oil lamp your skin glows in its newness, as you sit atop fresh sheets, your legs hanging down the edge of our iron bed, wrought out of love. I kneel, placing the bowl to one side and remove the towel from my waist to show you my naked frame that you have pulled from shame into comfort and pride. My collar is fastened; you nod and I pick up the dangling foot before me, a precious Rodin sculpture of the smoothest stone. For a moment I pause before I press my parted lips to those precious toes.

Forcing my fat wet tongue between them, drawing you into my mouth, I cradle the heel like an goose egg, its smooth shape sits perfectly in my cupped hands. I pass trembling fingers around your ankle, stroking back towards me, describing the arch and instep with hands roughened from hot summers in the orchard.

I shiver, feeling the hairs pick up on my arms, as I’m almost overcome by the completeness of this. At your feet, naked and serving you, my true vocation. As my cock briefly lifts, I hungrily lick, toe to heel, lifting the balls of each foot to place a long, lingering kiss on each.

“Begin” you say, in a neutral tone that seems loud in the silence of the evening. My hand moves down to meet my swelling self coming up, I pull silently at myself losing any sense of distance, just feeling fully in you, around you, of you.

I need this. This kneeling, this moment, this chance to pray and feel my real self reveal itself in all its vulnerability to you.

“Faster”

and I pick up the pace, the beating drum of my tightened skin matched by the rising of my breath. The joy of your commands knocks me giddy, I lurch and press into your knees, propped up between them, not stopping, just resting, engorging myself further by the scent of your ripe cunt.

“Back, where I can see, please” and a gentle tip back by your hand, and I’m rocking, now splayed and close to the edge but I’m powerless to speak. There is no need, you feel it. It is beginning, this covenant of blood and skin we both bear witness to, and I must seal it now.

“Good boy, it’s time”

and the release is final and sudden, a jerk from my guts and I spill my seed gratefully onto your pristine flesh and this is all that matters in the world right now.

I sink and the stone flags are a cold shock and scrape my stomach. I need to be as low as I can be, press my face into the sticky tops of your feet. To wear this offering as an anointed disciple.

Soon I will rise and bathe you. Slopping the warm water to rinse away my sacrament and swaddling your feet in crisp linen to press dry in a ritual well practised and unchanged by time.

Absent

Absence makes the night grow longer. The cold tunnel of darkness that recedes until I sleep having slipped exhausted into some sort of state of absence. My mind folds into the  imagined place I crave, where I cherish and cradle your feet as a slave, to soothe your swollen toes and aching arches.

I oil and rub the flesh smooth with a finish to rival a mother-of-pearl inlay in rococo oak, these ten toes, with nails like little red tongues, are just about the most perfect thing I have seen.

Working up past your calves and knees, gripping the flesh with vigour and rolling it round, drawing the blood to the surface, the dermis glowing like gold in sunlight. I kiss blissfully at the pale insides of your thighs as I rise to meet you. Your legs beg to be worshipped and tasted.

Your absentminded hand pulls the strands of my hair into a fist, drawing me into you as an owner who hauls the lead of a wandering beast. The other hand holding a book, your eyes cast just a look to acknowledge my work and then return to the object of your desire.

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.

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.

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…”