Fucktoy

Some days I just want to be your thing.

Stripped of name, face and feelings, just a cock you grab and use until you’re fucked full of fury and I’m smashed like ground grain. Don’t look at me or acknowledge me. Slap me to the size you want and I’ll fill your need for a belly full of cum and a head full of dizzying dreams. When I’m drained, spent and aching, I’ll feel fit for purpose. Thrown back in a draw for the next time your clenching cunt wants a fucktoy to feed it.

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Deliverance

My head on your chest, resting as you pull me close to heal my broken frame. The need for your ownership and your need to give it lets me give my body to you, safe in the comfort that you will take me. Lips bitten through, skin broken and sinews strained, you are my deliverance and the safe place I can crawl to, to feel truly free.

Your head on my chest, matting the hair with sticky fingers, shored up against my aching carcass. The need to own me feels so strong when I feel it thrust into me, hard, unyielding and urgent with hunger. We rut in the heat and cool ourselves with pitchers of water drawn from the well in the yard.

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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.

Sinful Sunday 380: the heat of the night.

The heat of this summer has been unbearable at times, inescapable, overwhelming, at once suppressing the desire to do anything and driving the desire to just be. Just feel. Just give in to the prickly awareness of sticking skin and flushed flesh.

I’ve blogged a couple of flash pieces about the super sensitive heat-driven desire I feel for Violet. This picture captures it perfectly, how it feels on those hot nights. But what was shared between us is now shared with you because She wants me to not hold back. And I don’t want to hide behind humour or strategically placed furniture every time. Sometimes it’s right to just to let the image speak for itself.


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Sinful Sunday

 

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.