Spin the slave girl: a fantasy

I have a very very good imagination.

Once in a while my husband will use that to his extreme advantage by crafting a fantasy directly into my ear while he manipulates my body. Bondage, discipline, even fucking, can come from his lips into my ear without him actually putting forth more effort than coming up with the idea.

He spoons me, and his lips are right against my ear, his arms around me as he begins to speak.

"You'd like a cage, wouldn't you. And I could just hang you from it. Tie your wrists to your ankles, spread your legs wide, and hang you up, just to beat you, or to fuck you wherever I want. Just to keep you right here and fuck you. I could spin you around to decide where to fuck, oooh I should fuck your pretty face right now," he whispers, his hands roaming my body as they like. In point of fact I have a cold sore right now, but my imagination doesn't worry about that as he describes his cock filling my face, my throat. I moan deeply and his fingers find my clit as he keeps talking about using my face to fuck. He strokes it lightly, expertly, driving my desire for him to a fever pitch as he keeps talking, his sexy fucking voice playing right inside my brain, turning me into a puddle of need.

"I could get your ass all nice and slippery, slide my fingers in there, then shove a huge plug into you. Then when I fuck your pussy, there won't be much room. But I'd make room. You're mine and I'd shove my cock into you because it feels so fucking good inside you. 'Too big,' you'll say, 'oh, master, it's too big for me,' but I won't fucking care and I will make you take it all and there is nothing you can do about it."

I just keep moaning. My brain has completely accepted that my face is currently full of cock, despite the fact that it is not.

"Mmm. It's so good inside your throat," he murmurs, "and I know that once your face realizes what it's really for, it hates to stop. All your holes are like that, aren't they? Once they realize they're fuck holes again they hate to give it up. Your sweet mouth doesn't want me to stop fucking it, does it? But I should just spin you again and see what else to fuck. Face hole, pussy hole, ass hole. . . face hole, pussy hole, ass hole." And inside my head, it's exactly as if he has done just that. I am a collection of holes, spinning slowly, suspended from a cage while he decides where he wants to put his cock next. I barely stifle my screams of gratification at being so objectified.

"Mmm, I guess I'll fuck your pussy," he murmurs, sliding his actual cock into me from behind as I make loud grunting noises, his words causing minor spasms over my entire body. I am a slippery wet mess by this point, his words and his fingers have made me come several times already. I am floating, every nerve tingling, hanging on his every word, suspended by his voice as surely as the imaginary restraints into which he has bound me.

"Take it, girl. Take it all. Too big, is it? That's your favorite thing to complain about, isn't it? I should spin you around again and shove it down your throat. You won't complain about that, will you? Of course you won't, your throat will be full of cock. Don't worry, girl, soon your lip will heal and then, ohh, and then. . . "

"Then you'll fuck my throat again?" I gasp, each syllable interrupted by my gasps as his cock moves inside me.

"Oh yes, what a clever fuck toy you are. That's right, then I'll fuck your throat again," he croons, the low rasp of his voice sending tingles down my spine. "You love being full of my cock, having all your holes filled and stretched open around me, for me. That's what you're fucking for. For me to fuck all your holes. Your ass loves my cock too. It loves me to shove inside it, to force you open, to make you mine. You're afraid too, afraid of how big it is. But you love to be afraid of my big cock fucking your ass. You're a collection of fuck holes, what's that like, to be a walking collection of fuck holes?"

I can only respond in grunts and barely-restrained screams. His words and his actions have driven any rational part of my brain away and I can only feel things, react to things, arch, scream, pant, gasp.

"And I can just keep you here, hanging here, for me to fuck those holes whenever I want, however I want. Ohh yes I like that. My own hanging fuck toy." He pulls me closer into him as he speaks, his cock pushing more into me than there is me, stretching my insides further, making me cry out as he finally comes. His orgasm is long, his moans of pleasure intense.

But then he is on top of me, his fingers sliding into me, stroking my clit, pressing hard into my g-spot, and I am screaming again. I thought I was spent, done, no more gasps of pleasure left but he is wringing every bit out of me that he can.

And I adore him. I adore what he does to me and I just keep thinking, when I am allowed to think as his fingers draw more orgasms from my exhausted body, how very lucky I am to be this man's sex slave.


Thank you, husband.

Fucking with a vengeance

My life is brilliant. Every night I fall asleep in the arms of my delicious, fantastic, sexy husband who, even half asleep, keeps mumbling about how happy he is with me and how much he loves me.

Every night.

My life is a fairy tale dream from which I have no desire to be awakened.

It must be real, though, because the pain of his fingers clamping down on my nipple still makes me scream. My screams still seem to cause him to erupt. Those pinches do not change my reality except to sharpen it.

He revels in the power I have gifted him over my entire being.

"Your body is mine," he murmurs against my temple.

"Yes sir," I whisper in response.

"Your soul is mine," he says roughly, directly into my ear, and I shudder. His hand is causing pain somewhere. Slapping my breasts, making me arch into him, or perhaps smacking into my spread open vulva.

The one thing every new dominant should know

Disclaimer

I don't like "should"s, or "every"s, or anything that seems to be a blanket prescription toward certain behaviors that might only apply to a small percentage of the population, possibly even just a sample size of one. So when I pull out the "should"s and the "every"s, chances are it's something I feel is incredibly important. This advice is geared toward those new dominants in long-term relationships and not necessarily those who are playing with a different person each time. It can also apply quite well to all dominants, but I wanted to limit the scope of my disclaimer because quite a few already do know what I'm about to share.

What you don't know

Contrary to popular opinion, what you don't know can hurt you and will probably hurt those people in intimate relationships with you. A BDSM situation, especially for those submissives exploring and finding their way for the first time, can be incredibly freeing. A submissive may find himself or herself with incredibly strong drives, with increased needs for intimacy - sex and kink, yes, but also just holding or touching or talking about feelings.

If you're not prepared for an increase in libido and other intimate needs, it could lead to some very bad places. 

This isn't a "you are in fact controlled by your submissive" sort of thing. It's merely a fact. Dom doesn't equal asshole unless that's your kink, and if so that's between you and your sub.

The backlash

An offhanded comment can reduce a submissive to tears so quickly that you mightn't even realize what's happened. In a dedicated long-term relationship that also happens to include lots of kink, if you want the bonuses that go with being dom, master/mistress, or owner, you need to be aware of what you have to be beyond just the kinky badass who takes what she wants.

For example: if a submissive mentions having fun and or sexytimes with you and your response is a lighthearted "That's your solution to everything!" it may not strike a nerve three times out of four, but especially if you say it often enough, when it does strike a nerve it will be a very exposed, very raw nerve.

The resulting emotional collapse from having this nerve struck may be something you witness, or it may not. Your submissive will try very hard to appear unfazed in front of you, but chances are she will feel like an annoyance: the guest who has overstayed her welcome, the sub who got just ever so slightly too needy. A sense of panic will start to set in. She will try to think what she can do to repair the damage, to be less annoying, and she won't see a way out of it because this is who she is now. 

Eventually the dam will burst. It's a horrible straitjacket for a submissive - her own internal needs and desires and fulfillment on the one hand, the need to please her dominant on the other, and the two things seemingly in direct conflict. If what she is can only annoy her dom, what is she to do?

What you need to be

I'm going to make a not-so-giant leap here and say that actually you should be this regardless if you're inclined toward kink or not-so-much. 

You have to be your submissive's safe place. If he can't express who he really is with you, then every kinky action you may take is for absolute naught. If he feels you are belittling his feelings and the things he needs from you to feel emotionally fulfilled, then he will start to withdraw - what else can a sub do when what he needs seemingly draws such disdain from the person he has devoted himself to pleasing? 

This might require some self-correction on your part, some examination of what it is you say, and as always in every kind of relationship that's meant to go anywhere, clear and near-constant communication.

Maybe you've told your sub frequently how amazing he is, how much he pleases you, but you have to keep doing that. As submissive people we thrive on pleasing our dominant halves, much like a dog loves to please its owner. But unlike dogs, we can make inferences and draw conclusions, even if they aren't anywhere near being correct. 

The hounds of self-doubt always dog our heels, and we need confirmation that we aren't overwhelming, that we are pleasing, and that what we are is what you want.

An awful lot of work for a dominant who's meant to get/do whatever she wants. 

You've got the world's all time best self-caring pet/plaything, but you still have to do some work. A submissive who feels himself/herself pleasing is a submissive who will do anything you ask, so I'm almost certain that the work is worth it. Ultimately, that's your decision to make. 

Please dominate responsibly.

A little reminder

It's dark, and I'm driving on a relatively long haul for a family trip - three and a half hours.

He's sitting behind me to let the more car-sickness prone among us have a better journey.

I shift slightly in my seat to relieve some pressure point that's irritating me, and that's when his hand comes to rest on my throat. His fingers stroke gently at first, and I purr. But even after he stops caressing me, he leaves his hand there.

It's a glorious reminder of his presence and our dynamic, of the fact that I am his and if he chooses to rest his hand on my throat he damn well can.

It arouses me incredibly.

But the arousal will have to wait until the weekend trip is over.

Keeping it real

On the plane, hours and hours and hours with no privacy, surrounded by foreigners he understands but I don't, he snuggles against me while our munchkin sleeps.

"Would my girl like a blanket?" he asks, and the intimation is clear. I pull the blanket over us even though it's hot. So hot. Too many bodies, too close for too long.

His hand, now hidden by the blanket, snakes under my shirt, strokes my nipple. I moan softly, quietly, low enough the roar of the engines hide it. His fingers pinch, tighten, and I want to squeal but I just breathe harder, tamping down the urge to make noise.

"Good girl," he growls low into my ear. "Good fuck toy." He squeezes my nipple again and the pain rockets through my body like a bolt of lightning. I can only just bear it, though a whimper escapes. "My good fuck hole," he says, and I am instantly hotter, too hot, I can't breathe at all now. He slowly removes his hand and I toss the blanket away, pulling away from him to allow some air to circulate around me. Passing out from desire wouldn't serve anyone.

It's not a game.

He's pretty good at keeping it real.

Step 2: Drive the slave girl into crazed arousal

Step 1 is here

I moan when he squeezes my head close, pressing my face tightly against his shoulder. He responds by pulling me even closer, holding me even tighter. I moan louder.

"You like being close to your master, girl?" he asks softly. He doesn't have to speak loudly because my head is right there at his lips.

"Yes sir," I purr as he presses my face even closer to him.

"You like having your master inside you, girl?" he asks, and I groan. His fingertip plays around my mouth; his hand covers my face and presses down, mashing my nose slightly in the way I adore.

"Oh, God, yes, I like that," I answer. My voice is masked because I'm speaking against his palm. Oh, yes, I like it when the boundaries of our bodies blur and his becomes part of mine, whether that's his finger in my mouth, his cock in my ass, or any of the range of possibilities between. I love when he penetrates me and we are no longer two people. I long for that, crave it, especially if it's unexpected and on his whim. His hand re-positioning the parts of my face is part of that.

"Flogging, spanking, and fucking. These are a few of your favorite things, aren't they, my girl?"

"Oh yes sir, they are my favorite things," I murmur. My hand strokes his cock, which I haven't forgotten even though I am sinking into a happy, happy place in my head.

"You like that cock?" he asks, and he moans softly as I press my palm against it and rub up and down through his boxer briefs.

"Yes, Master," I whisper, as I hook my fingers in his waistband and tug the garment away from him. He moans a little louder when my palm meets his bare flesh again, and he pulls my head close into his shoulder. I nuzzle him there, moving my face slightly, enjoying the pressure as I rub my palm up and down the underside of his shaft.

I lick my lips. I want to pleasure him with my mouth. I duck my head down, covering my top lip with a finger so if there is a cold sore it won't touch him, and I lick along his length. He rewards me with a loud groan. He wasn't expecting that. He lets me play there for a while, shoving my head down a little. "Ohhh, you want to suck me, don't you, slave?" he asks. "Trying so hard to be careful, but you just want your face fucked. You want to be my fuck hole, don't you? Such a good fuck hole you are, too." I just moan around his cock as he talks, eventually pulling my mouth away for sanity's sake.

He pushes me over, shoves my legs open, and lets his fingers gently, delicately explore between the folds of my pussy. "Ooooh," he says as he discovers the wetness pooling there, "is that a good place to be touched?"

I moan, taking in a deep, shuddering breath as he drags the wetness up to my clit. I squeal as his fingertip touches me there, my hips bucking up into him. "Is that your favorite place to be touched, slave?" he asks as he gently moves his slippery fingertip across the little nub, back and forth.

I gasp. "Yes sir, I like when you touch me there," I manage to say, though the words tremble as I moan through them.

His finger moves, and I tremble. My body arches up, my head lifting off the bed. "Oh, you're going to come for me, aren't you?" he says, perhaps a little surprised at how quickly this first orgasm reached me. "Go on, then," he says, "come for me, slave."

It's only a little orgasm, but it is there. My head pounds, my heart races. He keeps touching me, talking to me, telling me what a good sex slave I am, what a good, wet, soft pussy I have, and how much he'd like to fuck it. "I'm going to fuck you, girl," he says. "I'm going to get on top of you and shove my cock inside you. You like that, don't you, having your master on top of you, fucking you."

His finger keeps moving and his words are making me crazy. I am almost coming again.

He spoils it.

"You're going to come again, aren't you?" he says. He can tell I am close.

"uhhh, no," I groan. He directed my attention away from his control and to the impending orgasm and it began to recede.

"'No??' You don't get to say 'no,' slave." He's surprised - shocked, even, that I would dare. "You get to come when your master fucking tells you to. Now come for me."

It works. The feeling of being controlled surrounds me again and I feel my clit pulse under his finger, my breath catches, and I cry out, my limbs shaking.

"Good girl," he purrs.

"uhhh," I groan, spent but insanely aroused. "You fuck me now?"

"Hmmm," he says, pondering, "Well, I suppose you did something for me, now I can do something for you."

And so starts step 3: Fuck the slave girl's brains out.

High-minded pursuits in the bedroom

It is a long conversation. At the end, I merely say "It's like you're all pure and high-minded and I'm running around pursuing earthly pleasures."

He gets his kicks from math and programming. I can do too but I also want to go out, go hiking, see a show, be with friends - and I've always preferred sex to math.

He scoffs. "There's nothing high-minded about it. My earthly pleasures are just different from yours," he says.

I am quiet. Well, he said it at least, and that's all right. The world didn't explode. I feel ridiculous, dressed in a flimsy bit of lace lying in bed with him. I want to go put on something more substantial but my ruined foot would make that far more of a production than I would intend it to be.

I suppose I am quiet for too long. "What are you thinking, my girl?" he asks softly.

No reason not to be honest. "That I want to put on more clothes, but I can't walk."

"I like you naked," he says, and he too is honest. The words coil around my heart, around my stomach, and squeeze warmly. I feel my pulse speed up. "I think you should have on less clothes," he continues, his hand running under the bit of lace I'm wearing, across my skin. He makes my breath catch, my skin raise into goosebumps. I moan softly. I don't move, though.

His hand presses against my face and I moan again. He covers my whole face with his hand and presses, his lips settling against my ear. "You're mine, and you like to do what I tell you," he says. "I'm telling you to take off your clothes."

3 easy ways to submit without sex

Sometimes it's hard to keep ourselves in the head space that a power exchange relationship requires. Life gets in the way, kids get sick, events come at us hard and fast, family visits. Some days it can take all your energy merely not to explode into a giant ball of stress - forget trying to maintain any sort of power imbalance.

If you're like me, that loss of physical connection and intense scenes can really mess with your head. Withdrawal is easy and depression can follow it and then where are you? Nowhere good, that's where.

Thankfully there are a few ways we can submit from within to keep sustenance flowing to that intimate connection so that it doesn't go numb. Some of them are surprisingly, head-thumpingly simple. They just require a little consideration of the relationship as a whole and the direction you'd like to head in.

1. When the D-type talks, the s-type should listen.
   I hear you. "Duh?" you say,"Of course I listen when my Dom talks." But do you? If you're exhausted and just thinking about how amazing sleep would be, or if your D-type has awakened a little before you and wants to chat while you'd just like to grab a few more minutes of shut-eye, do you listen?
   
   There are a myriad of reasons that we don't really, really listen when people talk, but when we've willingly entered into a power exchange dynamic we should eschew those reasons when it comes to our partners. But you have to mean it. Stopping what you're doing with a groan of disappointment to listen dutifully is not going to work. You have to listen willingly and openly and respond thoughtfully. That right there is the biggest connection builder I can think of, even beyond intense scenes.
   
   When it's me, I think of it as another way to express my devotion. He wants to discuss ideas and I want to be open to him not just sexually, but in all the ways I can be.
   
   
2. Even when there is no time or energy for sex or scenes, touch your Dom.
   
   Snuggle up to her on the sofa. Sit at his feet and rest your head on his knees. Show the D-type that you are really in this, and even though your alone time might be taking a hit, you're still very very interested.
   
   I tend to start to feel undesirable after a certain amount of time passes with no sex, but I think I assist myself in that notion by withdrawing from any contact.  Something goes on in my head similar to "If he doesn't want me, I'll just keep myself out of his way."
   
   Ultimately that has always proven a ridiculous construct and I don't know why that feeling keeps returning, but it does. I combat it by continuing to be affectionate, brushing my hand against his whenever possible, and dropping kisses on his head if I pass him when he is sitting.
   
   It's more submissive to keep allowing the touches than it is to withdraw, though my intuition tells me otherwise for some damn reason.
   
3. Do things for your D-type.
   
   Is his family visiting? Plan fun activities for you all to enjoy together. Make them feel welcome and he will feel loved.
   
   Has she been working too hard? Make sure she comes home to a meal of some sort and a sympathetic ear.
   
   Take care of little things that might go unnoticed - plug in his phone, make sure she has her lunch, tidy up something that often goes untidied.
   
   Any one of these things may sound completely obvious, but when you do them from a place of considering your D-type's needs and desires each one can become an act of submission.

The dry spell will end and eventually you will have time for all the kinky naughtiness you are used to. If you don't keep the connection flowing in the mean time though, some of your potential kinky naughtiness time can get used up in restoring blood to the pins-and-needles discomfort. I highly recommend you just avoid that part and skip right ahead to the naughty times.

Helpless

Right now, I'm barely managing to get around my apartment.

We went hiking, and I sprained the hell out of my ankle after nearly 4.5 miles on the trail. Thankfully it was a loop, and we were almost finished, so the ranger station was close. My love fetched a ranger to help us.

But now I am injured, and one of my deepest, darkest, most frightening and, yes, most exciting fantasies is to be used while being genuinely injured. The fear of possibly being hurt more, the true helplessness, it all blends together beautifully in my brain. I have a swollen, aching foot and the opposite knee is a mass of bruised tissue that hurts really badly as well.

It's been exhausting, relying on my arms, my good knee, and my good foot to get around. My brilliant, loving, sexy husband has been amazing - helpful and solicitous. He's let me give him blow jobs, and he's touched me, brought me to orgasm with his fingers, but he's been terrified of hurting me further - overwhelming me with gentleness. Which feels lovely and like love and I adore him for it, but I was ready for something a little rougher after a few days.

In the mean time, I had been sinking into the feeling of uselessness that comes with not being able to do much. I began to feel more and more like a useless lump of humanity.

I told him. I steeled myself for his shock or disgust, but I should know by now it's hard to faze this man. Even so, revealing these little hidden bits of myself feels terrifying. I told him that my injuries turned me on, made me feel actually, truly helpless. Not like I could get up and run away or anything.

And my man. My wonderful, open-minded, beautiful man who apparently would in actual fact do anything to make me happy, he responded by turning into an evil sadist bastard and beating me, just like I'd asked. He started once we were in bed and he was holding me, long enough after the conversation that I was a little surprised when he went for my ass.

My ass already hurt from sitting on it way too much with my foot up to keep the swelling down, but he didn't care as his hand smacked into my backside. I squealed, I stretched, I squirmed, but I couldn't even kick my injured foot out, couldn't stretch and push away from him with it. Couldn't bash my bruised knee into his leg. I couldn't do much of anything except accept it, cry out, process the pain.

Oh, how I processed the pain. It was brutal but it was teetering on the edge of orgasmic. My brain really, really processed it. It took that pain and wrung every morsel of feeling out of it, through the entire gamut from true discomfort to bliss. He wasn't holding back either, or if he was I couldn't tell. It hurt, and it felt incredible, all at once.

I carefully turned onto my other side, my back toward him, and he had an even better swing now, even more force into my backside. He brought a flogger into play then, smacking the heavy rope strands into my back, my ass, the backs of my legs. It felt incredibly heavy, nearly unbearable, and my body writhed. My foot wanted to push against the mattress, to stretch and to fight, but I had to keep it still or suffer even more.

"You can't get away from me," he growled into my ear, his free hand tangling into and tugging on my hair, "and I think I will fuck you tonight."

I whimpered in response, feeling my body respond, swell, lubricate for the fucking he was promising. But not yet.

My arms were over my head to protect my face and neck from any stray strands of the flogger, and he was taking a break, dragging the soft trailing nylon ends against my skin, making me purr. And then he targeted my breasts - a heavy smack of the heavy rope into my nipple. A knot caught me right on center and the breath whooshed out of me.

"Oh fuck," I breathed out, stretching as much as I could, thrusting my chest forward for more. Holy shit, that was incredible. I can't remember the last time he'd flogged my breasts and my breast was singing a hallelujah chorus of delight while my nipple simultaneously screamed in pain.

"Oh, I think you like that," he growled as he did it again, and again, and again. I screamed for the joy of it, for the pain of it when a knot would catch my nipple again, about every third strike.

"Don't even think of trying to get away," he said, trading the flogger for a braided version that terrifies me when he uses it on my ass. The nylon braids stroked my screaming nipple, made me gasp and whimper. "Writhe for me, girl, writhe. Good fuck toy," he whispered into my ear, swinging the braids down hard against my breast. "If you try to get away, I'll just have to drag you back and beat you more. Can you imagine how much that would hurt?"

I nodded, whimpering with a kind of aroused fear that is completely unique. The thought of him dragging me back to him and beating me after I'd tried to run away on my damaged foot made me even wetter as I writhed under the heavy blows from the braided flogger.

"Oh you are turning me on, girl," he said, moving the bedclothes from between us and letting me feel his erection against my sore ass. "I do think I will have to fuck you," he continued when I moaned my pleasure at feeling him. I moaned and wriggled, leaning forward to provide him easier access to do just that.

"Good hole," he murmured, pressing his hard cock against my slippery opening and resting with just the head inside, until I wriggled.

His fingers stroked my aching nipple and I begged. "Nipple hurts," I whimpered.

"Yeah? That's interesting," he said, squeezing it tighter, making me scream. I wriggled back against him again, wanting more cock, so turned on by his control.

"You want more cock?" he asked. "You want this cock to fuck you?"

"Yes, oh, fuck me, fuck me, fuck me," I begged.

And he did. He slid inside, pulling me to him by squeezing my breasts. My ass burned where he'd beaten it, a pleasantly aching reminder when his skin brushed mine. My breasts were still singing joyfully at having been flogged, my nipple screaming in burning agony while he held it tightly, and I loved all of it.

I was so wet. Surely I was wet enough he could fuck my ass. I wanted him to fuck my ass. I wanted to feel completely invaded by him, and I shifted a little to try it.

It wouldn't even go in a little bit. Not even the tiniest, little bit. I groaned my frustration as he resumed fucking my more willing opening.

But later, he went for it himself. He pushed me forward as he fucked me. "You want me to fuck your ass, slave?" he asked. "You want your master to invade you? Would that make you feel more used?"

"Oh my God, yes," I responded, panting, insane with the want of that.

He lubed my ass while he fucked my pussy, making me groan and whimper at the fullness of his finger in my backside.

And then his cock was aimed at the opening that had already rejected him once, but this was his decision and it was going in. As the head made it through I screamed, groaned, and bucked. So intense. Too intense. Couldn't handle it. My body tried to get away even as my brain relished the overload.

"Not going anywhere, fuck hole," he informed me, gripping my hair in one hand, my hip in the other, and pushing steadily onward - but slowly enough I felt properly invaded, not ripped open. It was delicious. "Going to fuck your ass now," he said, and he did.

His hand went back to my nipple, tortured me there a bit while he moved, and then moved between my legs. "Give me that pussy," he growled into my ear, and I opened my legs for him to touch me there, whimpering as his fingers contacted my sensitive clitoris. His cock never stopped moving in my ass, never stopped feeling amazing, as his fingers began to work their magic on my other bits. His thumb was on my clit and he sank some unknown (to me) number of fingers inside my pussy.

"Oh my God, too much, I can't," I groaned as he overloaded my brain with sensation and my body with fullness.

"Too much?" he asked. "No such thing. This is what you're for. You're for your master to fuck and to fill as much as he wants. Isn't that right?"

Oh God, I thought, you're right, I'm for you to fuck. 

All that could make it out through my groans was "Yes sir,"

"Your ass makes such a good fuck hole," he growled as his fingers moved in my pussy. My ass clenched on him.

Oh. And I wanted to say You like fucking my good fuck hole? but the thought of saying it was too much and I started to tremble there, impaled on his various parts.

"Oooh," he said, knowing an impending orgasm when he feels one. "My girl is going to come for me while I fuck her ass, isn't she?"

"uhhhh-huh," I groaned, tremors racing over my body.

"Go on then, fuck hole, come while I fuck your ass," he growled, and the thought of it was too much, with his fingers moving inside me, against my clit, his cock in my ass. I came screaming and wishing I could say the things in my head that were contributing to making me come.

The orgasm lasted a long time - he drew it out on purpose with his fingers, his cock, and his voice. When my body was finally limp and relaxed, he pushed against me again. "Not done with you, fuck slave," he said. "You're going to come with my cock fucking your ass again."

It's not hard for him, once he's gotten me there once, to drive me there over and over to the point of exhaustion. So that's what he did this time, finally culminating with his own orgasm.

"You want me to come in your ass, slave? You want your master to fill you up? You want to feel well-used?"

"Oh, fuck, yes," I whispered, hoarse from screaming my own pleasure, still seriously enjoying the sensations of his cock and his hand moving on my sensitive parts.

He groaned his own release into my ear, pulling me tightly to him.

As I stretched in his embrace, practically purring as my faculties of speech came back to me, I said "It's strange that you have to treat me like an object to make me feel like a person again."

He stroked my hair. "Maybe I treat you how you want to be treated, and that acknowledges your wants and desires and makes you feel like a person."

He's a smart man.

And hella sexy.

The Cure

I am highly, highly oversexed. I don't like that word because it makes it sound like I have too much sex, when in fact what it means is there is no such thing for me. I think about sex constantly. I may stop thinking about it for a minute or two at a time, but thinking about sex is my general state of being.

It's only natural that when the time allowed me, I'd start writing it too.

Being monogamously married to and owned by a man I adore is wonderful, but it sometimes carries a woeful amount of misunderstandings with it.

I get sad when we are not having some kind of sex at least every day. I'd prefer multiple times. We compromise and I think we're both pretty happy with where things are. Sometimes, though, life gets in the way for a day or two (or God forbid three or four) and it just doesn't happen. Sadness overtakes me then. I'm still thinking about sex all the time, but not having any, and I feel pathetic and undesirable. Things I could normally get through give me difficulty. Lethargy sets in, I feel depressed, I wonder what the point is to anything. Even through the fog of sadness I still read and think about sex, which just fuels the depression but isn't something I can shut off.

So he senses my sadness, or in some cases, he outright sees it. I cry easily and am overwhelmed by parts of life I should have under control. I lie awake well into the early morning, unable to fall asleep. He sees these things and he holds me, comforts me. Herein lies the miscommunication. He sees his girl sad and laden with woe and, not being turned on by sadness, he holds her through yet another sexless night. I feel even more worthless because the one thing I want is being retarded by my very reaction to not getting it. I despair, sunk deep in the self-digging hole.

I tell him this, trying to shine a tiny light of knowledge up at him from the bottom of my pit. I tell him that the words he once spoke to me years ago echo in my head, making me keep my silence. "It's hard to want a girl who's sad all the time."

By some miracle, he gets it. Not immediately, but quickly, after I choke back a sob to tell him that that's a self-digging hole. I start to say something else, but his palm is pressing on my face, pressing against my nose, covering my mouth. I moan. His hand moves, pressing against the other side of my nose, squeezing my face. "You were going to say, girl?" he asks, and his voice has changed. The solicitousness is gone, and in its place is a rough, dark rasp. His legs are none too gentle with mine as he yanks them apart.

His feet dig into my calf as he pulls my legs open, and it hurts. "Ouch!" I say, but my thoughts are already captured in the present moment as he climbs between my legs. There is no room for sadness in the suddenly electric atmosphere he has created. If he's acting, he's very good at it.

"You were going to say, girl?" he asks again, his hand pressing all over my face, tangling in my hair, tugging it until I gasp with the sheer joy of it.

"N-nothing," I gasp.

He's moved across me now, on my other side. So much of what happens is a glorious, glorious blur. He's spanking me, his hand delivering sharp stinging blows to my backside. He buries the whole of the thenar and a good chunk of the thumb of his free hand in my mouth, and I am biting down into it, screaming into his hand while he tortures my nipples.

"Do you just have nothing to say when your body is being slowly reduced," he pauses to hurt me more, to make me scream louder into the amazingly effective gag that is his hand, "mmmm... being reduced to fuck meat?"

I scream. The hand not in my mouth is touching my pussy, my clit. "Fuck meat," he said, and I scream and scream and scream. It's primal, what those words are doing to me, and I can't properly record anything before or after the ground zero of those words. That moment is shining and brilliant and all the other bits around it, amazing though they are, fade.

He makes me come. "Oh, it's been far too long since you've come for me," he says. "You're going to do that now, aren't you, fuck toy? You're going to come for your master now." My head is slowly arching back away from him as he talks, as his fingers work their magic on my sex. It feels to me like the whole thing happens in slow motion, as my body tenses and I am crying out, all the tension releasing as I come and come and come. My legs shake against him. "Oh look at you, no self-control at all," he says, and he is right. He controls me. He makes me come again, tugging my head backwards by the hair until my groans of delight deepen into guttural grunts. I am bent very far back when he finally lets go.

He won't fuck me with his cock. He suggests it, he teases, he makes fun of me, makes me beg. "Look at you. Why would I give you my cock now? In the state you're in you'd never give it back. Would you?"

I moan my negative response, tossing my head as his fingers fuck me.

"See. I'd never get my cock back. What does that make you?"

I don't answer immediately because I am screaming. He teases me to orgasm with his words. "A slut," I answer, my voice cracking because I have reservations about calling myself that.

"My slut," he clarifies, and he is kissing me.

Finally I have begged prettily enough, and he is atop me sliding his cock inside. I groan as he fills me. He feels amazing. I fuck him from beneath, just really driven wild by everything that has happened so far.

I'm falling. I'm falling, I'm flying, into an abyss and he's holding me there under him by my hair. That must be why he's pulling it so hard. His kisses are hot and urgent and he is forcing me to stay there when I would float away. I hear my own screams as if from a distance and I want to be in this moment - this moment - forever. My head is spinning, my sense of balance is all out of whack, and he just keeps driving his cock into me, drawing the screams from me with every thrust and every tug of my hair.

"I think it's your turn," he says. "I think you should get on top of me and fuck me."

"Anything you want," I gasp out breathlessly, unable to really catch up to the situation. A whole lot of delicious things have whizzed by me that I couldn't fully assimilate. Mostly fantastically dirty things he has said that made me scream in the moment but are now lost forever because my brain is overloaded. I'll take it though.

"That's right," he says, "anything I want." He rolls off me onto his back, waiting.

I dive after his cock with my mouth. It tastes sweet and salty and I moan as I lick it all over.

"Oooh, I didn't say you could suck the cock," he admonishes me. "But I suppose you're just a cocksucker who couldn't resist, huh?" I give his cock a long swirling suck for answer as I pull my mouth away, and then I am lifting my leg over him.

"Oh yes, give me that pussy," he says as I lower myself onto him, as his cock presses up into me. He grabs my hips and I scream. His hardness has never felt like this before. "I think you know what to do," he growls as I begin to slowly rotate my hips, gasping as I feel all the new sensations that changing positions like this causes.

It really doesn't take long before it starts to feel amazing. His hands are on my hips and when I start to scream he keeps moving me the way I was moving before. I am screaming, he is moaning deeply, and we are coming at the same time.

I lay on his chest for long, long minutes afterward, kissing his neck and shoulders, rotating my hips against him, listening to his soft sounds of pleasure as we both catch our breath.

After I roll off into his arms, I kiss him again, softly and with great respect and tenderness. "Thank you for rescuing me, sweet master," I whisper against his lips.

He's already half asleep, but he squeezes me tightly against him. "Love my girl," he answers.

Forced helplessness

There's a certain aspect of D/s sexual interaction that really gets me going: Being punished, chastised, or otherwise taken to task for something the bottom has no control over, or something the top has actively caused.

Usually the only place I get to see these scenarios is in bad snuff fiction with psychopathic kidnapping murderers, but something over on aisha's the other day triggered my "yummy!" sensor. I thought my husband was aware of this kink of mine, but turns out it must have been buried under all the other kinks of mine littering his poor brain. So when I started talking about it, he got pretty excited. Apparently he likes to learn things about me he either doesn't know or has forgotten.

What followed that conversation was experimental on his part, and very, very intense for me.

---

"Why did you like that spoon on your face so much?" he asked, stroking my cheek, covering my face with his hand and pressing hard.

"I dunno," I moaned against his palm, then, giving it a little more thought, "I like it when you do things to my face." I'm pretty sure that was already obvious since I was sort of melting into him, moving my face into his hand as it roamed.

"Hmm," he pondered, kissing me, stroking my face all over, "I think there's a part of you... that wants me to slap it."

I moaned.

"But I said I wouldn't do that, didn't I? That I wouldn't slap the pretty girl's face.." he lifted his hand from my cheek, pausing as if to slap me, but he didn't. I felt my whole body flush, and suddenly I was hot.

He moved his hand, slapped my breasts one at a time, kept talking about slapping my face. His exact words are lost in the roar of blood in my ears, in the sounds of his hand smacking into my breasts over and over. His lips claimed mine eventually, kissing me senseless while his hand gripped my hair, tugging my face into him, pulling my hair, making me cry out.

"I'm surprised you don't fight back more," he said as he slapped my breasts.

"You don't like that," I answered softly.

"I suppose a submissive girl might just like to submit," he continued.

"I like to fight," I whispered, even lower.

"That's right, you do," he murmured. "I suppose I might like to feel wanted... like you're just saying 'Here I am. I'm yours, do as you wish with me.'" I was on my back next to him, he was on his side facing me. My right leg was trapped between both of his, his leg tossed over my hip and bent so it crossed my leg a second time. His hand was in my hair, his other hand gripping my throat as he kissed me, as he spoke those words. His fingers moved from my throat down my front, toying with my nipples, slipping lower, lower, until he parted my sex.

I nearly screamed when he drew my wetness over my clit. I spasmed, my trapped leg trying to pull away.

"Where is that leg trying to go?"

"Nowhere," I hurried to answer. I wasn't quite sure what he had planned, wasn't sure of anything except how very turned on I was. So I answered honestly.

"You like having your legs forced apart," he noted as I moaned when his leg tightened on mine, dragged it further away from my other one.

"Uh-huh," I answered, his fingers on my sex pretty much robbing me of intelligent language.

"Are you my slut?"

"Uh-huh." I would have agreed to almost anything at that point, but then I started thinking.

"Are you a cock slut?" His fingers, God, his fingers, making me crazy, how can I think, how can I have this conversation?

"Nooo," I protested.

"No? What kind of slut are you, then?"

"Nooo," I argued, brilliantly.

"You don't get to say no now, girl, it's too late. Cock slut. You want this cock to fuck you, don't you?" he asked, his fingers sliding inside me, making me buck up into his hand.

"Uh-huh," I said, twisting.

"So why don't you turn on your side and let me fuck you from behind then?" he said, a little edge to his voice that should have warned me something was up.

I tried. I really, really tried. But the way he was holding me, I couldn't turn. Each time I tried to turn, I felt the muscles of his legs tense around me, holding me in place, holding me open. "Come on, cock slut, just turn over. I guess you don't want it bad enough. I guess you don't want to be fucked from behind at all." His finger moved, faster and faster, lighter and lighter, on my clit, and my body arched up off the bed, still trying to turn, but unable. That is when the orgasm hit me, as his words crashed into me without letup, as his finger worked its magic, as he held me in place even as I tried to do what he told me.

Fuck, yes, I came. How could I not?

"Silly slut can't even do what she's told," he murmured into my ear as I panted. "I guess you don't really want it - but guess what? I want it. I guess I'll just have to show you how it's done." With that, he took his leg off me and roughly - roughly - shoved me over onto my side. I can't even tell you what that I want it did to me. Just whoa.

"Give me that pussy," he growled as he prodded the head of his cock into me. But his hand was on my ass, pressing me forward. Oh, fuck. I tried to back onto him, to feel him filling me, but he pushed on me just enough so I could get about half his cock inside. "Come on, girl, give it to me," he growled again, as I tried to find some leverage on our featureless bed to press against. My hands slid helplessly over the smooth sheets, we don't have a headboard, pressing into the wall would be the wrong direction. I moaned deeply, frustrated, even as I felt myself grow impossibly wetter.

"I guess you really don't want it that badly," he whispered, grabbing ahold of me and yanking me all the way onto him, filling me up by ramming us into each other. I squealed as he hit bottom, stretching me out suddenly and quickly. Fuck.

---

"You're my property, aren't you?" he murmured, long minutes later, my legs splayed open, one wrapped behind his back, his fingers stroking my clit while he fucked me.

"Yes, yes, yes," I panted.

"Putty in my fingers, aren't you?" he asked. "Do whatever I tell you?"

"Uh-huh," I groaned, as those very fingers drove me insane with pleasure.

"Turn over and suck my cock, then," he said.

He let me, though I moved slowly, like one in a dream. I love the taste of me on him, of us together like that. I licked slowly up his length, tasting, before I let myself suck him in.

"Oh, that's a good girl, good girl likes to suck the cock, doesn't she?"

He was fucking into my throat, pulling my hair, telling me what a good fuckhole I am when our poor sick munchkin came zombying into the room. At least the kid has good timing and it was a good moment for interruption.

It was more a laugh and a "Poor baby" than a scream of frustration, at least for me.

And we finished, later, after settling the poor kid down. That story is less defined in my memory, though.

But holy hell, what a first outing for the bits of 'new' knowledge.

---

Somewhere up there, in our conversation, we were talking about him beating me, and he said "But it's so much fun!"

I don't know where it fits in the greater narrative, but it definitely struck a happy chord inside this girl and I wanted to make sure I mentioned it.

Three weeks

He is so sexy. He was talking near-constantly. "You like it when I do things to your face? To your head? Yeah? Me too. It feels intimate, doesn't it?" His hand was pressing against my face, he pulled my hair, he pressed my head hard against his chest. I cried out each time, unable to contain the extreme emotions he was causing in me - and oh, God, the arousal. The desire. I was right there with him and he was keeping it that way with his constant stream of words.

"I like taking you for my own." His hand slipped between my legs, where I was a slippery mess. His thumb across my clit made me gasp. I felt his cock press against my thigh and I groaned and pressed my body toward it.

"You want something, girl?"

"Cock... cock," I pleaded, my hips moving with his fingers. He was pressing my g-spot and I screamed.

"I'm going to try something new. You don't get any cock - until you come for me." His fingers continued their dance and I whimpered, so sensitive, wanting him to fill me up.

"Oh, God. Please. Please." I writhed under him - he climbed atop me and rubbed his cock against my splayed-open sex.

"Not until you come for me. I suppose I could be extra mean and take my hand away. That would make it pretty hard for you to come, wouldn't it?"

"Yes sir..." I was terrified he would do that.

"Good thing for you I like making you come." His cock rubbed against me, his fingertips delicately stroked my clit.

"Oh, please." I arched up, moaning, trying to tempt his cock into me. It clearly wanted to be there.

"Gonna come for me?"

"No,  please... please."

"No? You don't seem to understand how this works. You come for me when I tell you to. You're mine."

"Oh, God... please." I was melting beneath him, turning into nothing but a puddle of need. His fingers know exactly where to touch me and they were making sublime use of that knowledge. Participating in the conversation became more and more difficult as the pleasure built inside my head.

"You don't need that cock."

"I do!"

"You don't need it. You don't need it at all." His fingers worked their magic through all his words, and as I was protesting that I did need his cock, I felt the spasms start. A deep moan started in the back of my throat and soon I was screaming.

"Good girl. Good fuck toy," he praised me. He kept his fingers moving - forcing another orgasm out of me.

My voice was strained when I could resume normal speech again, but still I begged. "Oh, please fuck me now.."

He complied, moving his hand out of the way and sinking deeply into my body, making me groan as his girth stretched me. "What do you even want with that cock?" he asked roughly.

"Feels so good," I whispered, rolling my hips up into him.

"You can't even come with that cock there. What kind of slut gives up orgasms for cock?" He pressed me down, pinning me to the mattress with his cock. I groaned. I love that.

"I... I can come with the cock there." It's true - it's happened. Not terribly often.

"Sure you can. Uh-huh."

I was beyond response, lost in sensation, not caring about his disbelief. I wasn't going to come with his cock in me like that, but who cares when it feels so fucking fabulous?

Glorious fucking. How do people not like sex? Seriously. Though definitely the right partner makes a huge difference.

He was asking me something. The fog of pleasure, the words he'd been pouring into me, were changing. This was a question.

"Maybe I should fuck your ass. Would you like that?" He ground his hips against me, his hot length pulsing inside me, generating an answering pulse, a clench, from my inner walls.

"Oh yes," I answered, the words perhaps a bit slurred, drunk on sensation as I was. I would like that very fucking much, in fact. But my hands were clutching his hips, pulling him into me over and over, not particularly willing to give up this present pleasure for a future one - even if the future was immediate.

Since he's the one in charge, though, he pulled away from me, leaving me empty as he rolled to lie next to me. I whimpered with the loss even as I turned my back to him.

"Poor girl just wants to be full of cock, doesn't she?" he whispered as he squeezed lube onto his fingers. I whimpered as he applied it to my ass, squealing a little when his finger penetrated me there. "Good girl," he whispered, and then it was his cock pressing against me - hard and impossibly big. He applied slow, steady pressure. "Take it, girl," he coaxed as I groaned.

"Oh God, oh God, oh God," I whimpered as he slowly speared me. And then - oh, God - then the head of his cock entered my clenching ass in such a way that it felt so fucking incredible and all I could do was groan with a deep, unbelievable pleasure. He wasn't even all the way in me and I felt like I could come again any moment.

"Good fuck hole," he said, pulling back just slightly and pressing all the way in, making my cries spiral up into the darkness. "Take it, bitch." He grabbed my hip and pulled me back onto him, his other hand tangling in my hair, the elbow of that arm in the center of my back - both pulling me toward him by the hair and pressing me forward, keeping me from relieving the pressure on my scalp. I love that so much. The noises coming from me were animalistic - grunts, groans, uncontrollable noises of pleasure and overwhelmed sensations. That noise - the vibrating one that sounds like several voices coming from my throat at once - that one - started coming out of me as he fucked my ass, and he talked.

He talked and fucked, pulled and pushed, and I screamed, writhed, and existed as a mass of nerve endings for him to excite.

He excites me so fucking well.

When he came, I felt each spurt expanding his cock, making it feel even bigger inside me, impossible to accommodate, but I did. Of course I did. That's what I'm for - accommodating him.

I am mainly in the lifestyle to get my brains fucked out.

So far, it's working very very well.

Imagine this - multiply it by three weeks - pile a bunch of physical labor into the mix - and you get why I haven't been around much. Having the screaming sex trumps writing about it every single time.

I do like the writing though.

Taking

Jetlag is a killer.

We're having a hard time adjusting to our new time zone, but otherwise everything is lovely. Friends, shows, family, fun. Just as arranged.

Something I ate didn't agree with me, and when we went to bed so, so early, my husband merely wrapped me in his arms, told me a story, and we fell asleep.

Later - much, much later, his fingers drifted across my face, he cupped my breast. His gentle touches were pulling me from the depths of sleep. I moaned softly.

"Mine," he whispered. I felt his cock pressing against my leg. His fingers kept stroking my skin - waking me up more and more. I resisted internally, though I did nothing to stop him. He'd already reminded me to whom I belonged.

"What you doing with the sleepy girl?" I asked groggily.

"I thought I might fuck the sleepy girl," he answered. He knocked my legs apart and stroked me between them, adding a slap or two for good measure.

He drew me out of sleep, he fucked me, and I thanked him for it.

"Thought it would be a shame for the fuck toy to go a night without being fucked," he said as his fingers drove me to the heights of pleasure.

After the screaming, he gathered me into his arms and squeezed me tightly. We lay awake for a long time like that, our limbs entangled. In an odd twist of events, I fell asleep before he did.

One of my favorite parts of our dynamic is when he takes what he wants - even if it means waking me from a sound sleep.

There's an indignant feeling at first, and then comes the realization that this is good and right and exactly what I've always wanted. There's a brief internal conflict and then I am swept away, all my walls down, his for the taking.

He's very, very good at this.

Amusing D/s conundrum

There's this movie.

My husband, and most everyone in our circle, has seen it.

I have not.

I consider it part of my identity that I have specifically chosen not to see this particular film, and my husband has never taken issue with that. I chose not to watch it before we were ever a couple. In fact, in the world in my head, this film does not exist.

When it came out on DVD, I bought it for him. When he wanted to watch it with a friend, I left the house for the day and they had a day of it - I even made and brought them dinner!

Now we have a munchkin, and he wants the munchkin to see it. I'm fine with that, if it's important to him - I told him I'd go off to goodwill and browse while they watched it. He's not happy with that, though. He wants us all to watch it together.

I suppose you could say this film is a hard limit for me.

I'd do anything for him. Seriously, I would - he's amazing and he does so much for me, not just sex, though, holy hell, the sex.

Move across the country? Sure! Leave everything I ever loved behind? Sure, I'll cry a bit, but for you, babe, I'll do it. Suck your cock every morning before work? Yeah, that sounds awesome. Pay the bills? Plan the meals? Cook the food? Yes, yes, yes. Bear a child? Absolutely. Anything for you, love. Plan every outing that we have? Okay, I can do it. Plan a last minute trip for all of us so we don't have to be apart when you must travel on business? That takes some wrangling, but I can do it.

Watch this movie? .... I dunno. 

I asked him to put it on a scale of 1-10 how important it was to him for me to do it, and that was a spectacular flop and he wound up giving up, so it's not like getting me to watch it will grant him some fantastic experience he'd be missing out on otherwise.

So, submission. Not a problem. 

Except this.

It's a testament to how awesome the man is that I'm even considering this and not dismissing it out of hand.

I'd love to hear some thoughts on this - sacrificing something I consider part of my identity for his momentary, fleeting pleasure. It's not like he'd bask in the grand sacrifice of it or anything.

Chest of secrets

My favorite piece of furniture in our apartment, besides our bed, for obvious reasons, is a tufted storage ottoman with a hinged lid.

Almost exactly like this.

We bought it brand-new from Goodwill for $40. Apparently Target donates a lot of stuff to Goodwill; who knew?

It's very, very roomy. Inside I have stored hundreds of feet of rope that I have dyed, my scissors, matches, candles, dozens of reels of hand-dyed twine, and two large bags of D-rings. On top of all that sits the more vanilla stuff - two hundred feet of paracord and buckles for making bracelets, a 2-lb weight that I use for holding one end of my bracelets when I make them, and my little one's potholder weaving stuff.

We call it my rope chest. When we sit in the evenings, I often have my feet propped on it. We had guests recently, and one of them spent the evening unknowingly sitting on top of all that stuff, while we laughed and chatted and had a good time.

When you open the lid, the stuff on top gets your attention first, but you move that out of the way and all these glorious, beautiful, glowing layers shine out. My rope addiction aside, the layers are interesting to peel back. A gorgeous bit of rope may be lurking at the bottom, forgotten because of the newer things piled on top.

I think everyone has a metaphorical chest of wonders inside themselves. Inside that chest are all our kinks, our innermost desires, the ways that we best relate to others people within relationships. Some people have lots of kinks in theirs, while some people have hidden talents that they show no one. The secrets inside our chests sparkle, but we're afraid to take them out.

Many people keep theirs locked up tight and never even peek inside, but those of us who have taken that leap and opened the chest are greedy. Taking out the first layer is terrifying and exhilarating all at once, but is hardly ever enough. After the breathtaking experiences that first layer gives us, we want to drag out every little thing inside and decorate our lives with it all. The things inside are too spectacular, too wonderful, too fantastic to shove them back in that chest and close it again, to live our lives without acknowledging and celebrating some of the most amazing parts of us. Some of us want to take the things out slowly and examine them, explore and savor each individual wonder, while others want to just dump the whole thing out and let the items inside erupt everywhere in glorious chaos, dealing with the fallout as it comes.

Both of those approaches are completely valid.

It doesn't matter how you explore your wonders, as long as you explore them.

What happens, though, when you have two people in a relationship, they've both agreed to explore those chests, and one is the more thoughtful, savoring type, while the other one wants it all out now? We could of course complicate this endlessly by adding more partners to the equation, but I will stick with two.

Logic seems to dictate that you go at the slower pace, since you can both keep up with that. Unfortunately, life doesn't always follow patterns of logic. To the person who wants more, more, please just let me see/feel/do/experience more, the slower pace can seem torturous, perhaps even intentionally so, if that person is the s-type.

What then?

The way I see it, there are a few options.

• The partners talk. I know, right? While I don't think this is an issue where compromise is necessary, - especially if a power exchange is involved - if the partner with the longing can be let in, in detail, on the thought processes of the other person, I think that would go a long long way toward relieving some of that need to be on to the next thing.
  
• The slower partner picks up the pace ever-so-slightly. Not enough to feel rushed, but enough to give the other person a sense of progress. Perhaps examine several things at once instead of just one. If you have three or four new activities or ideas to ponder instead of just one, that can let the other person feel more of a sense of progress, more like the bottom will eventually be uncovered.
  
• The faster partner chills the hell out. Probably most useful in combination with the above options. It's never done anyone any good to shove a person where they're not quite ready to go yet. In concert with chilling out, talking more about what's on the other person's mind, perhaps even bringing up something new that is tangentially related to what you're already exploring, is bound to go a long long way toward building that bridge between the two of you.

I love my rope chest. I love that it occupies so much floor space in my living room, I love that it's the most attractive piece in our home so far, and I love that no visitors know what's there unless I choose to show them.

I love my kink chest too. We're still only a few layers deep, and I have no idea where the bottom is. We're having a blast exploring it though - even if I do get a little greedy sometimes.

I've just given new meaning to the phrase "Something to get off my chest," haven't I?

Happy Friday, everyone!

When I quit

I went to bed alone, fairly early, feeling sad, forlorn, and exhausted. My hands hurt; I think I have arthritis in them. There's hardly any time any more for us to just be the two of us, and I'm feeling it. Add to that the cold sore that's kept us from kissing for nearly a week, and I have not been a happy camper. So while my husband worked at the kitchen table I took my netbook to bed - against our long-standing mutual rule, no non-book tech in the bedroom.

From there, I sent him a message via Google talk: "I think you should know that I quit."

Soon thereafter, he joined me because he'd noticed I posted something on facebook. "What you doing with your computer on the bed, girl?" he asked me. He hadn't gotten the message.

"I sent you a message," I said, as I continued what I'd been doing.

He took out his phone and checked his Google messages. "Um, you quit what? Quit me?"

I shook my head, put my netbook away, and started playing a game on my Kindle Fire, sitting on the edge of the bed. We made fun of the game, laughed a bit. My husband went to brush his teeth.

When he returned, his entire demeanor had changed. "Why don't you put the game away?" he whispered in my ear.

"Whyyyy?" I groaned. So not in the mood for this. Not in the mood for him to do things he doesn't want to do to cure the mood I am in. Not in the mood to be that person who requires attention. Not in the mood to be soft, compliant, willing.

"So I can play with you," he answered simply. "You can be the game instead of the player." As much as I wanted to push him away, those words still sank into me, started eating away at my reserve. If it is a game, he plays it too well.

"No," I said firmly, turning the game off, putting the Kindle away, and settling back into his arms. No reason to push the issue. I figured if I did as he said perhaps we'd get away without the theatrics.

"'No?' There's just one problem with that, isn't there? I think you know what the problem is," he whispered in my ear, his voice sending shivers all over me despite my best intentions.

"I don't know," I whispered. My entire body was thrilling to his words, even as my head balked. Traitorous body. One day it will do what I tell it. That won't necessarily be a good day.

"You don't get to say no, my girl."

I sighed softly, resigning myself to whatever was about to happen. Perhaps if I feigned indifference long enough he'd give up and go away. (aside: WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU, GIRL? Do you hear this man?)

"You seem to think that I'm not interested in you. You're wrong." He had pulled me onto my back, shoved my nightie up over my breasts. He slapped my nipple, hard.

I gasped, bit my lip. "Am I?"

"You are." He slapped my nipples back and forth, alternating, causing me to twist and buck. I sighed loudly, obviously. He ignored me. He shoved my legs open and began slapping my inner thighs, hard. Okay, so there would be no feigning indifference. I was gasping. It hurt. My knees kept coming up, together, and he kept shoving them apart again with a casual flick of his arm, continuing to slap. So much ownership is expressed in that casual flick, like my legs closing was no more troublesome to him than a fly buzzing near his head.

"Does it hurt?" he asked, since I was making a lot of noise indicating such. "What are you going to do? Close your legs? Is that going to stop me? Open them. Keep them open until I say otherwise." Oh, my God. Oh, God. I do so love it when he tells me what to do. It hurt so badly, but I was so turned on by the entire situation, by his words, and my legs lay as if bound. My muscles tried to resist but I forced them to stay down, open, as he continued to rain blows on my already sore thighs.

"Good girl," he said as he finally finished, his fingers trailing lightly over my reddened skin making me squeal with the pain. "Sensitive girl," he observed, and grabbed a flogger from the small pile on the corner of the bed. He trailed the ends over my thighs, letting the knots drag harshly against my skin. I squealed again, twisting slightly but still keeping my legs open. He lightly slapped the ends against my thighs, but that didn't hurt as much as the knots dragging there.

"Huh," he said, surprised. "It almost seems like this" and he dragged the knots against my thigh again, making me squeal, "is more painful than this." He lightly slapped the soft ends against me.

"It is," I whispered, my throat already dry from crying out and open-mouthed panting.

"That's interesting," he said, trailing the flogger ends up my body, letting the knots drag the soft ends behind them, creating shivers of anticipation the whole way. He brushed the ends across my face, and then he tapped them lightly against my face, but it was clearly not just a brushing, not just an application of the sensual possibilities the soft ends bring. He was slapping my face with the ends of the flogger - silky though they are, it made an impression. I felt myself get wetter as I moaned with each soft swoosh against my face.

"How does it feel to be my plaything?" he asked, dragging the flogger down again, between my still-open legs, and lightly flogging my pussy with the ends, much the same way he'd just done to my face.

"Helpless," I responded between soft moans, arching up.

"You like that, huh?" he asked. Talking about the flogging. Yes, I like the flogging. I like the helpless feeling too.

He rested the flogger handle on my shoulder, the falls draping next to my head.

His fingers found my core, my clit. I gasped and arched into his touch. "Oh, God," I whispered. The man works magic with his fingers.

He was on top of me. What? When did that happen?

He lifted the flogger from my shoulder, dragged it over a little. Oh my God, he was pressing the flogger against my throat. First the handle, then the rope, pressing against my throat, draping over it and then the pressure, his hands on either side pushing. I gasped. A little tiny scream emerged from me, all that my limited voice channel would allow.

"Mine," he whispered, looking down at me. "You want me to fuck you, don't you? You need fucking." He rocked his cock against my thigh.

"Yes, yes, yes," I panted, rising up to meet him.

He pressed his cock against me, pressing my folds open. He nudged just the head inside me and I groaned as he rocked barely into me. "But what if I don't?" He pulled away completely, leaving me empty, rubbing his cock against me again, pressing it into my thigh.

I whined.

"Ah, you'll whine. Like a puppy. Or like a bitch in heat." He continued teasing me with his body, rubbing into me. "Whine for me, bitch."

I did. I couldn't have stopped if I'd wanted to. I whined and I got wetter and wetter as I did what he told me.

"Good girl. You'll get the cock back, I'll fuck you," he whispered, slowly nudging his way back inside me.

I rose up, but he didn't let me engulf him. "Sweet little bitch," he murmured, sinking all the way into me at his own pace, as I kept whimpering, trying desperately to take more of him. "There you go, there's your cock. How's that cock feel?"

"Oh, God," I moaned, rolling my hips into him, squeezing tightly around him. It felt good. No, better than that. Fucking amazing. Words. What are words again? I moaned louder.

He moved inside me, his hand wandering over my body, pinching my nipple, then pressing against my face, pushing my head into the mattress by my face. A deep, guttural noise came from me, lower than a scream but just as long. "Oh God, oh my God," I chanted, my words distorted by his hand pressing the side of my mouth out of shape.

"Mine," he said, calmly, clearly, as he kept pressing into my face, his hips pressing mine down as well. Resting on his elbow, he locked his other hand behind my head, taking a fistful of my hair and pulling it hard, my head trapped between the force of his hand in my hair and his other hand on my face. I screamed as he moved, his body surging into me relentlessly, his fingers regularly tightening in my hair.

He let go, balanced on his hands, looking down at me, driving into me slowly. "My girl likes a nice slow fuck, doesn't she?"

"Fuck, yes," I whispered. I lifted my legs up, bending my knees, opening myself to him even more. I grabbed my feet and pulled up, pressing my knees into his sides. I was rewarded with a deep groan from him.

"Ohhh this is my fuck hole, isn't it?" he asked, his eyes boring down into me.

"I am yours," I answered, moaning constantly. My legs began to ache after a while and I lowered them, driving my heels into the mattress to lift my body up to his - higher, higher, and he was surging into me deliberately, emptying himself into my body and moaning loudly, his pleasure quite obvious. I squeezed him against me. He rolled off me.

"Can I close my legs now?" I asked softly, meekly.

"You may close your legs," he agreed. I did and rolled onto my side, facing away from him. He snaked his hand around my waist and pulled me tight to him, then slipped his hand between my legs from behind, sliding his thumb easily into my pussy.

"Ohhh," I groaned, surprised. His fingers began slowly stroking my clit, and I rolled more onto my stomach, letting him have his way with me as I lifted my hips in the air.

"My puppet. My sweet little fuck puppet," he whispered into my ear, driving his thumb deeper into me, making my body move to his command. I whimpered.

"Oh, you like being my fuck puppet, don't you?" He twisted his hand for emphasis.

"Yes sir," I moaned, my hips dancing with his motions.

"Mmmmm," he said, the simple vibrations in my ear making me shiver. I was quickly approaching orgasm and his words were only driving me faster.

"Come for me, girl," he whispered in my ear. I did. I screamed, kicking, pulling away from him, my leg vibrating as I came for him.

"Good girl," he said, not stopping his movements, his voice continuing to say sexy things in my ear, my body dancing on the end of his hand like the puppet he'd decided I was. "Good girl comes when she's told, and all I have to do is say, 'come for me,' isn't that right? Come for me," he whispered roughly in my ear, triggering another orgasm, more screams, more kicking.

He didn't stop. He kept going. I was a mass of nerve endings, a screaming, writhing mass of open emotions and sensitivities and he just kept touching me there, in that spot that made it all so fucking good, his thumb buried inside me giving me a sense of fullness that made it all that much better.

"Girl likes orgasms," he noted, his detachment somehow making my state of completely helpless arousal all the more arousing.

"I can't.. I can't," I begged, too sensitive, too many orgasms having taken their toll. Wait, did I say too many orgasms? No such thing.

"Yes you can. You know you can. Don't lie to me, fuckhole."

My head took over from there.

Don't lie to him, fuckhole.

Don't lie to him, fuckhole.

Don't lie to him, fuckhole.

I came, screaming, the most powerful one yet shaking my body, my legs going completely out of my control. My head was pounding with the force of the blood rushing through it. "Oh my God," I whispered shakily as I came down from it. As a credit to his empathic abilities, he did stop then, pulling me close to him and rubbing my body, kissing my neck, whispering words of love and praise. He's pretty awesome at aftercare. Hell, he's pretty awesome at most things.

"I love you," he said softly into my ear, as we were falling asleep. "Don't quit me."

For the record, I would never, ever quit him. We go together.

So I am not allowed to quit - at least not without discussion and a valid reason beyond "I think you're not into me."

And me? I am okay with that. Better than okay. Thrilled. I may have started all this, but it is not okay for me to end it.

Resistance

"Turn over so I can flog you," he says. Matter of fact, of course I will obey him, I always do. I am a good girl, a good plaything.

I snuggle closer into his side. "I'm not sure that I'm interested," I say, also matter of fact.

"Oh?" he says, gentle amusement tinging his voice. "So now I'm supposed to require an interested girl? When did that happen?"

"No, no, I mean, I'm not so sure I'm interested in any of it."

"Huh. You mean you just want to be snuggled and loved on?"

"Yeah. We're doing okay like this." Barring the ravaging of my exhausted form several days earlier, we'd been getting by on snuggles, kisses, a brief flogging. My brain was becoming used to it, and I much preferred to just happily exist there rather than to fly off into the stratosphere only to have to come crashing back down.

"You don't get to choose though, do you?" His words drive the nail of desire deep into me, and I whimper, burying my face against his chest. "Do you?" he prompts.

"No, but." I squirm as he lifts my shirt, strokes my back and ass, slaps my ass a few times, lets his hands wander over my skin.

"I can take my shirt off for you," I offer. It's a good shirt; I am afraid he will stretch it out.

"This feels more invasive," he says, clutching me close to him. He's right, it does.

"I can put on another shirt if you wish to be invasive," I say. "This one is actually a good shirt." It matters not if he stretches my night clothes that only he will see me in, my good clothes are another matter.

"I'll let you take it off," he relents.

I sit up and do so, then slide back into his arms. "Thank you," I whisper against his shoulder. He is in the drawer, and he has cuffs. He wraps my wrists in the softness of them, firmly, even as I whimper my complaints.

"You're a complicated girl, aren't you?" he asks softly.

"Am I?" I ask. I know what he means, but it doesn't seem that complicated. Needs not met go away.

His hands are everywhere, stroking, slapping. His fingers wander between my legs, and I close them. "What's this? You think you can hide parts of you from me?" he asks. He is persistent, pushing on my knee as I shake my head. He strikes my inner thigh hard then, raining blows down on my inner thighs alternately, pushing them apart when I try to close them. He rolls atop me, holding my legs open, rubbing the hardness of his cock against my thigh that he had so recently been slapping. The soft cotton of his boxers abrades my abused flesh and I whimper, struggling.

"Is there a problem?" he asks, his voice taking on the tone that tells me he knows full well what my noises are about, but wants to hear me say it.

"It hurts," I squeak out, having become unused to even such a simple phrase.

"Oh, does it hurt? Has your leg gone all sensitive?" he asks mockingly, continuing to slowly press against me there. His hands shove my knees even farther apart and his head disappears under the sheet. His mouth is pressing against my sex, opening me, and then his tongue is inside. I groan, trying to close my legs, arching up to his mouth at that same moment, simultaneously begging him to stop and begging for more. His mouth is rough with me too, his tongue taking me; this is no gentle lovers' interlude, he is proving a point. My thighs fall apart and I move with him. We both already know he has won.

He stops. "Who do you belong to?" he asks, his face coming from under the sheet, hovering over mine.

I clench my eyes shut, refuse to look at him, shake my head. "Nuh-uh," I say. Defiant, even as he kisses me, as I taste my own arousal on his lips.

"Nuh-uh?" He is surprised, astonished even. He slaps my breast once, again. "I said, who do you belong to?"  Two more slaps, harder. "Who do you belong to?"

My resistance, defense from the need, is melting beneath him. "You," I whisper, my eyes still clenched shut. As if not seeing him will make this whole situation cease. It doesn't work.

"That's right," he says, his fingers pinching my nipple, making me arch up into him and moan. "Now why did I have to ask you that three times? I thought this was already established. You are mine." He kisses me again, sliding off to my side, his fingers occupying the space where his mouth has recently been. My hips move with his touch, and he is talking to me.

"What is this?" he asks, a fingertip dragging up through the wetness he has generated, stroking my clit that has been untouched for days. I groan, a deep, guttural sound from some hidden place inside as his slippery fingertip drags across that magic button. My hips move of their own accord. "A wet, horny slut, I have here. You want me, don't you?"

I shake my head, groaning still.

"That's okay, baby, you can say no all you want. Your pussy says something else. What does it say, baby?"

I shake my head, even more vigorously than before. "Nuh-uh," I whisper.

His lips are close to my ear, his fingers sliding inside me. "It says 'fuck me,'" he whispers, his voice causing goosebumps and an uncontrollable moan to come from me, not to speak of the manipulations of my sensitive bits. "Doesn't it? It says 'fuck me, fuck me.' Let me hear you say it, baby."

I shake my head again, but he is relentless. He presses his fingers deep inside, pressing against my g-spot repeatedly, making me groan deeply and curl into his touch. My wrists twist inside the cuffs, over my head. He presses into me until I come, panting, writhing. His voice is in my ear as his finger continues stroking my clit, making my body squirm, making me moan helplessly. "I like to make you come. I like to touch you here, feel you move, under my control with just my fingertip. This must be what it means to have someone wrapped around your finger. I understand it now.."

"Oh, God, fuck me," I beg.

"I'll fuck you, baby. That's what you're for, isn't it? Good fuck toy," he says, his fingers sliding back inside me and pumping away. I groan. "Good fuck hole," he growls, enjoying my responsiveness to his touch, his words. I am melting into him, a puddle of need, the very need that I have only recently banished. I don't care anymore, I just want this. Want him. Want us, entwined, enmeshed. What does it matter at that point which person is owned and which is the owner when both are one?

I am turning over onto my side, rubbing back against his cock as he presses it against me. "I don't know if it will go in there," he says as it presses just slightly into my opening. I am tight still, even after his fingers plundered me. I groan and wriggle my hips. "Maybe I should fuck you some other time," he whispers.

I grunt and shake my head, pressing back against him harder, wanting this now.

"Does your pussy need to be fucked now?" he asks. I moan in response.

"Let me hear you say it," he orders.

It is a struggle to vocalize, but he is requiring it of me and so I manage it, desperately. "My pussy needs to be fucked now," I moan, coupling the words with a little wriggle back onto him.

His hand is on my hip as he plunges inside me; we both groan with satisfaction. "Mmm.. I bet you'd say that more often if you could," he whispers.

"Yes sir," I agree softly, as we move together. Passion flows between us, wrapped up in sex. He feels divine; he is divinity visited upon me. Who am I to complain that I only get such treatment twice a week? Who am I to resist it when it does occur? Selfish, horny slut, that's me. Complicated? Yeah, I guess I am.

"Were you made to be fucked?" he asks.

"Mmhmm," I whisper.

"Were you made to be fucked by this cock?" he asks.

"I am for you to fuck," I pant, my hips moving, hard to speak through the pleasure he is causing.

"Mmhmm, that's right," he approves. He is grabbing my hip, my hair, and slamming into me over and over. I am crying out. Oh, fuck, that feels amazing.

He comes; or I think he does. I am lost in arousal, desire, need. I am not terribly attentive. I am Greedy Submissive right now. He removes himself from me, though, and his hand replaces his cock as I roll more onto my stomach, my head resting against my bound hands. He is still talking; as his thumb presses inside me, his fingers play with my clitoris. I am nothing but sensation; a hole to fill, an ear to torment. My brain reacts, setting my mouth to constant near-scream. He is pulling my head up by the hair. Yes, yes I am a fuck toy, God, yes, a fuck hole. This is what I am for. Nothing else. I was put here for this. Everything else is distraction. This is the distillation of my being.

I am screaming louder as his fingers continue working their magic - his hand is constantly tugging hard on my hair, my head lifted into the air, his words. A scream turns into a deep, panicked groan as my leg starts thumping behind me. "Come for me, slut," he orders, his voice nearly lost in the noises I am already making. That is all - I was approaching orgasm already but at his command it overtakes me. My neck muscles relax, the result being an increased intensity in the pulling on my hair, which makes the orgasm even more intense. I cannot control anything; I am controlled, I am free, I am screaming with pleasure too intense to bear, but bear it I must.

I collapse onto my face, his hands are gentle on my back, stroking my hair. I am softer now, accepting his touch gratefully, melting into him. We are part of each other, as it should be.

Sleep claims me, and when I wake hours later, wrapped in his arms, I am still cuffed.

The monster

"Aren't you afraid that you're turning me into a monster?" my sweet, sweet husband asked as he rose up over me, preparing to use his fingers on me after intense, hot, sweaty sex despite my extreme exhaustion. He'd been slapping my nipples sharply not five minutes earlier as he rocked his body into mine from behind, his hand covering my face, his finger filling my mouth, his words of ownership rasping in my ear.

I laughed, hugging his head to me even as his fingers slid inside me. "No," I whispered, kissing the top of his head, giggling and moaning at the same time, my hips arching up to his touch. "Are you?"

"Maybe a little."

Perhaps his fear of the monster is what keeps mine at bay.

All I know is he makes me so, so happy - even when I'm exhausted. There isn't even the tiniest bit of worry in me that he is becoming a monster; though sometimes he makes a truly excellent one.

Vanquished

"Don't smile at me like that," I bit out at him. Insufferable man, thinks he knows everything.

"How am I smiling at you?" he asked, his blue eyes sparkling, the corners of his lips turning up even more.

"Like, 'She's saying 'no' now, but soon she won't be.'"

"Mmhmm," he said, his lips settling over mine. I struggled. His hands clasped my wrists and pinned them down. I struggled, pulling at my wrists, and he tightened his grip. With his mouth, he pushed my shirt over my breast, then fixed his mouth on my nipple, sucking hard, biting. "Mine!" he said when I squealed.

---

"You're mine," he said, straddling my hips, sitting up. He pushed my night shirt up past my breasts and I twisted. He slapped my breast, hard. I moaned, bucking underneath him, meeting the hard wall of his body that prevented any escape. He slapped my breasts from the other side, setting up a rhythm. I'm not sure how long he went on like that, slapping my breasts, making them bounce, making me buck and squeal. "I can do whatever the fuck I want with you," he said. "If you didn't like that, you should have thought of that before you gave yourself to me."

He rose up, moving his hips until they were in front of my face, and then his cock was rubbing over my face, pushing past my lips, over my cheeks, bumping into my nose. I was grunting, my eyes squeezed shut. "Lick it!" he ordered. I stuck my tongue out and let it glide across his skin as he continued humping my face. He pulled my shirt up and over my head, leaving my arms in it so it was hooked behind my neck. He kneaded my breasts, pressing them together almost painfully as I arched and groaned beneath him, moving his hips to fuck between them.

"Whose are you?" His words were timed perfectly with a slap aimed at my breast.

"Yours."

"And what are you for?" I arched, expecting another slap, but none came. He was patiently waiting for an answer.

"For you to fuck," I whispered.

"I should get on that then." He slid up, his cock pressing into my mouth. I moaned as he pressed against my face, holding the sides of my head. He placed a pillow under my neck for a better angle, and slid in until I gagged, noises forced from me from his cock forcing air out of my throat. I love that noise. He fucked my face slowly, murmuring words that are lost in the fog, making me groan and grunt as he filled my face with his cock over and over.

"Good fuck hole," he murmured softly, praise and degradation combining to make my body tremble as he pulled away. A moan emerged from somewhere deep in my throat, a primal noise coming from a place beyond thought.

"Did you forget that you were a fuck hole?" he asked, his thumb sinking into my mouth, replacing his cock. I could only moan as I sucked on it.

"How does that make you feel?"

I was beyond words, in a place where the feeling has no name. I felt owned, used, simultaneously degraded and adored, and very fucking aroused. I managed a grunt in response.

"Let's see how it makes you feel," he said, sliding down my body.

"Oooh, it makes you feel good," he whispered, his cock sliding into the arousal he had created, filling me up. My eyes were darting around and I was moaning. Our eyes met as he entered me fully. "For lack of a better word."

I moaned, rolling my hips up into him to feel him deeper. "I'd ask you to come up with a better one," he said, his voice gravelly in my ear, "but I think you're beyond finding words. I think you're just reduced to a fuck toy now."

He thought right.

He felt amazing.

We stayed like that, rocking into each other, for some time. My legs scrambled for purchase on our smooth sheets to push back against him. He pinned my wrists to the bed and drove into me, forcing groans from me. Waves of dizziness swept over me as my blood rushed away from my head.

But then he pulled away, seemingly suddenly. "Uh?" I grunted, looking at him as he rose to his knees. He was leaving the bed. "Where you going?" I stammered out.

"I'm going to put you up on this ramp and fuck you," he said matter-of-factly. He kept saying he was going to do that last time too, but he never did. I crawled out of the way on all fours and he plopped the Liberator ramp down in front of me. I whimpered. "Go on, get up there," he said. It's so hard to hold my balance up there at this point, but I did as I was told.

He put the wedge in front of me for me to rest on, because he's not completely evil. I climbed up on all fours and he grabbed my hips, sinking deeply into me. His cock first rubbed against my g-spot and then slammed into my cervix. I screamed and arched up, away from him, but he grabbed my hips and held me, pumping into me like that over and over. Pleasure, pain, pleasure, pain, they coexisted and then they mingled and then I was driving back into him and I was screaming "Oh God," nearly constantly. He grabbed my hair in one hand, pulling straight up, forcing me up onto my fingertips, and he kept pulling higher. His other hand wrapped around my throat, his fingers pressing into my windpipe just so, not blocking my air completely but restricting it just enough that I could only rasp "Oh God," and breathe raggedly, and the whole time he kept fucking me, fucking me, the cock, the hair, the throat. So. Fucking. Perfect.

I was screaming raggedly and he was holding my throat and pulling against it with each thrust, giving my hair a little tug as well, and I felt him get closer to his own release. I screamed even louder, overloaded with the extreme sexiness of it all, as he pumped himself into me, releasing his orgasm into my body.

He pulled away gently and I collapsed there, legs hanging off the bed, face buried in the wedge. He rubbed my back. "You want me to hold you now, love?" he asked tenderly.

This man.

I think he can keep me.

Talking dirty: His POV

GUEST POST by my HUSBAND!

So here’s my long awaited guest post about talking dirty. I apologize in advance for the lack of actual good examples of phrases and words and the whole thing sounds more technical than sexy, but I’m shy and Conina’s blog really has more than enough examples if that’s what you’re interested in.

As Conina has mentioned, I certainly didn’t start out being comfortable talking during sex. I won’t go into the details of my naivete when it comes to kink in our early years together, but suffice it to say I was quite the noob and Conina opened my eyes to quite the new world.

I learned early on that talking was good. It felt a bit awkward at the very beginning, but I got over that pretty quickly. What I discovered was that talking really sets the atmosphere, sets up a scenario even when there’s not much role play going on. It keeps us both in the very headspace we want to be in.

Now, when it comes to talking dirty, I guess I started slow, using the occasional word here and there that I hadn’t before. I called her names, mostly, in the beginning. I used words that I wouldn’t use before that I could tell were affecting her the way I wanted to. Thankfully Conina will often respond with a moan or a groan when I press the right buttons with my words, and I use that as a gauge to make sure I don’t overdo it.

Over our years together I have been expanding my sex talk vocabulary, and it’s only through experience (we love to “practice”) that I’ve become better at improving my timing and have learned that my words are most effective when they’re particularly aimed at making her feel owned, dominated, subservient... I suspect you get the idea.

To me it works both because I get the right kind of feedback in response, which tells me that what I’m doing is working, and because it becomes part of the action, enforcing my role and my behavior towards her. Without any immediate response to me I would certainly be more hesitant to say anything.

As usual moderation is important. After a while it becomes too easy to try the same thing over and over, and when you’re too focused on your actions your words can get a little out of hand (and vice-versa of course). So it may be best to err on the side of saying too little at first.

Timing is equally important. Follow phrases up with actions, or do them simultaneously. Words must match behavior, certainly don’t just say things for the sake of it. Let them come naturally, which isn’t actually that hard considering you’re unlikely to find a more appropriate time to be using phrases like this.

So in summary, dominants should be aware of how effective saying the right kind of things can be, and the importance of using words to further make your sub feel submissive.

Submissives should understand that response is key, without any feedback it’s hard for the dominant to tell what works for you and what doesn’t. Communication afterwards is of course important too, and I highly encourage it to further improve your experience.

If you have any questions for me, feel free to leave them in the comments. I'll answer what I can.

---

I'd like to thank my lovely, lovely husband for agreeing to write this for us. He's awesome, shy though he may be. - Conina