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.

Why you should worship your husband's cock? -CWS challenge response

I'm sorry, even writing the title of this post up there made my stomach turn. I dislike language that indicates I know better than someone else. "Should" has no place here unless I am talking about myself, or about given facts - "Dominants should not abuse the trust of their submissives."

I posed it as a question because that's the only way I could even write it there - and the answer, actually, is quite simple. If your husband worships you, adores you, keeps himself clean, and the two of you enjoy being sexual together, then that's step one. If you worship and adore him right back, then  you probably will want to give cock worship a try. It might not wind up being your "thing," but you never know unless you give it a shot.

Sometimes a single line will echo in my head for years and decades after its speaker has uttered it. My husband, before he was my husband, once briefly commented on how low the balance was on his (fairly wealthy) parents' bank account by saying "Yeah? The money comes in, the money goes out, and we live?"

That's stuck in my head and is a thing I remember - long, long after he's forgotten ever saying it himself. It's especially helpful for those moments when I am despairing of being able to save money, but our bills are paid.

Another one of those lines that has stuck with me came from the keyboard of a close friend of mine. We were talking about sex, positions, fantasies, blow jobs. I was a virgin but I was very well-read and oh, so ready to have sex with the man I loved at the time.

My friend said to me: "If you love someone, you love every part of them."

Hello, thunderstruck moment. Hello, duh. Hello, silly silly girl. Of course that was true. She wasn't talking about the "bad-habit-get-you-killed" parts of them, but the actual, physical parts. Fingers, nose, neck, chest, back, toes, legs, pussy, cock. All the parts. Your adoration is meant to shower that person. 

Do I believe that married people should worship their husband's cocks? That men have some inalienable right to have their partners go down on them?

No, I don't. Not all husband-wife partnerships manifest in sex at all, and not everyone who is sexual is into the same things.

Do I believe that people in love who DO have sex should worship each other's bodies? 

Yes. Yes, I do.

For me, this results in bestowing lots of affection upon my man's cock, because, hell, it makes him feel good. It makes him feel really, really good. He likes kissing, and he likes cocksucking, and he likes being touched, so I kiss him, and I touch him, and I suck his cock. I try to put the love I feel for him in every touch, every stroke, every kiss. I try to communicate my adoration, my gratitude for the gift of his companionship through my life. He's amazing, he takes amazingly good care of me, and I want him to feel that I know it every time I touch him.

Of course, I get a great deal of pleasure from making him feel so good, and my submissive bent means that I thoroughly enjoy being "used" for his pleasure. I love making the people I love happy. Putting a smile on someone's face is an incredible feeling, and even more so when it's the person with whom you're in love. A blissed-out post-orgasmic smile, complete with sighs of fulfilled pleasure, is the most fantastic reward, not to mention the incredible amounts of good will such an act generates - even after all these years. Honestly, after a bit of a learning curve, there's not that much effort involved in creating that reward. 

If for one second I thought he was uncomfortable with his cock in my mouth or down my throat, I'd transfer my affections to something he was more comfortable with - something that could bring him more pleasure. It's not about his cock - it's about him. 

But since he continues to enjoy my ministrations, I'll continue providing them quite happily, and try every single time to make him feel as good as I am happy to be married to him.

---

I wrote this post in response to Spanky's June challenge over at CWS.

The CWS Challenge for June is to write a post on the topic "Why you should worship your husband's cock."  I hope some of you have thoughts to share about this topic.  Maybe someone will read your post and be inspired to finally take the plunge? Or somewhere a hubby will show it to his wife and say "See!  This is what I've been trying to tell you."

But - I really, really hope no man tries to get his cock in his partner's mouth by saying things like that.

Sex slave

I can't really begin to express how difficult it is growing up and being entranced by the idea of slavery, of being owned and helpless to another person's whim.

I devoured books about slavery all through my childhood- Roman, Greek, Egyptian, American, various and sundry other cultures - simultaneously horrified and enthralled. My very fascination amplified my horror - what sort of person gets tingles when reading about these things?

What was best, when I read the sometimes-fictional books, was when the owner and slave developed a true affection for each other, and then when it became sexual, although not always in that order. There was choice, but there was not choice; there was joy, but there was also ownership.

I tried to pretend the fascination was only academic as I grew older, to mask my fascination with slavery in all its forms with what looked like a voracious love of history, but I never could eliminate the tingly feeling I got when I thought of being possessed, of being owned, taken, controlled. The guilt always came along for the ride too - the guilt of knowing that I shouldn't be so fascinated, that the very concept should be repugnant to me, and that the world should advance beyond those base concepts of people owning people. The pleasure and the guilt became so intertwined that I wasn't always sure which was which. At least in my fantasies I was always the slave and never the owner, though that was a minimal balm at best, since the guilt still told me I was disrespecting people who had no choice in their slavery.

These days, I am a little more comfortable with myself, and I feel much less guilty. I very much identify as sex slave. I know there are people out there who will take issue with that, because I'm not "extreme" enough and because blah blah blah, whatever. Slavery is defined by the Master, not by anyone else. That has always been true - your situation as a non-consensual slave absolutely depended upon who you wound up with.

When my husband pulls me into his arms and says "Mine!" or, even better, whispers into my ear "You belong to me," it thrills me to my core. Every single time. When he further whispers that he is a lucky, lucky man, I can only be grateful. I feel that I am most definitely the lucky one to be gifted with his ownership and his acceptance of who I am. Most importantly, that I made the choice to give him my body, my soul, my Self. Certainly I never would have made that choice or given the gift of who I am to a lesser man.

Sometimes, I think he forgets. He's a lovely person, a sweet and caring husband, and he can be an absolutely demanding master and sadist. In all that, I think he forgets sometimes that there are simpler joys in owning a sex slave, things less complicated than long scenes or multiple orgasm sessions.

There is pleasure to be had from me that doesn't require his energy to be expended beyond a bare minimum. I just want to make his life better. He takes such excellent care of me - really, I am a very very very spoiled girl. It wouldn't hurt him to take a little more from me, even if he doesn't hurt me in the process. Or even if he does. Either way, really.

---

At the same time, I know that sex trafficking is real. I know that there are women and girls out there in the world who have been born or sold or married into a lifetime ordeal of not having the choice of who experiences their bodies and who does not. I do what I can to support organizations that can help.

http://www.equalitynow.org/

It's all been done before

I started writing a post. A beautiful, hot, steamy post about being spanked, flogged, paddled until I couldn't stand it and a little past that.

More - double penetration with a huge butt plug, being fucked from behind, having my hair pulled while being driven into the mattress.

Much screaming, many many screaming orgasms. Helpless, breathless, overwhelmed.

I started writing that and then realized this blog is already full of that kind of thing.

It's old hat.

But it's still a bloody good time.

Kudos to Husband because it never, ever, feels old hat.

Grafting

My husband and I are that couple.

You know, the ones always lingering near each other, with their hands reaching, their arms around each other, the ones who stop and kiss on the sidewalk for no apparent reason.

Often, when a suggestion is made that involves one of us not being with the other for any extended period of time (like an entire night), we panic, get depressed, then make a solution to fix it. "You go with me," he says, or "We go together."

He was wrapping his arms around me last night and he said that. "We go together."

"Do we?" I asked. "Do we 'go' together, or did we 'grow' together? You know, like the tree that ate the bicycle."

A visual aid for my readers. I know, I'm awesome.

"Maybe a little of both," he said.

"But that's not quite right, is it?" I asked thoughtfully. "Because that's a growing thing that carried a static thing along with it. We're both growing things."

"Mmhmm. Like two trees that fall into each other?" he said, trying not to fall asleep.

I thought about it for a moment, thought over our history, and then it came to me.

I'm a gardener. I would pore over the plant and seed catalogs all winter, dreaming of sunshine and dirt under my fingernails. One thing that I learned was that many fruit trees are not all the same plant. One plant is bred for its roots, and one for its fruit. The fruit of the root plant won't be as nice as the fruit of the fruit plant, and it's likely the roots of the fruit plant wouldn't be as strong or hardy as the roots of the root plant.

The root tree has the top of the fruit tree grafted onto it, and they grow into each other until, if it's done correctly, you'll never know it was two different plants. The original shoots of the root plant are then cut off, and the roots provide nutrients to the top of the new tree, which will be planted in its final destination or shipped off to a nursery.


If you're interested in learning more about the process:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Grafting

Before my husband and I were a couple, he was drifting. Aimless, anchorless, like a hot air balloon with no pilot. Nice guy, but he wasn't really headed anywhere. Admittedly, he was quite young.

Before we were a couple, I was casting about for something as well. I wasn't quite sure what was going to happen in my life, I was lonely and didn't see the point in working or being alive. I, too, was quite young.

We came together, and suddenly we were both motivated and things started happening in our lives. From our union came joy, and from that came the confidence to do wonderful things.

I'm the roots - I spread out beneath the surface and nourish us.

He's the flowers and the fruit. He is magnificent - a rock star - brilliant. He shines and has a confidence that has really taken him places - even if a great deal of the time he's just "faking it."

Because we grew together.

Without me, he'd shrivel up and die, and without him, I'd have nothing to live for.

We still have separate facebook profiles, though. Tsk, people.

Masochist, part 2

First part is here.

"Poor, complex girl," he said, pulling me into his arms and kissing my cheek. "Good thing for you I know how to be gentle," he murmured as his hand wandered between my legs.

He does know how. His touch was soft and so so light. I purred softly as he stroked my clit with the slightest of pressure from his fingertip. . . but then his finger stopped moving, just resting against my clitoris.

He was asleep.

I groaned, moving my hips slightly against his fingertip, but it wasn't the same. I sighed loudly and turned onto my side, feeling the frustration that had already been inside me start to bubble over dangerously.

My movement woke him. "I wish I could be as good to you as you are to me," he said softly, his hand on my hip.

"You could be," I answered, a bit snappishly. "I'm not difficult. I just require you to be present." By "present," of course, I mean there with me and not drifting off elsewhere to sleep or think about Doctor Who, rather than just his physical presence. I'm right there stumped by many of Doctor Who's mysteries along with him, but I'm not thinking about it during sex.

He pulled me back toward him, his fingers finding my clit again.

"No," I whispered. "You're bored. That's not sexy. Boredom is not sexy. I'd rather not."

"That's not boredom, silly girl. That's orgasm putting me to sleep. Brain chemicals. Not boredom." And he rose to the challenge, his fingertip gliding delicately across my clit as he held me down, his leg keeping my legs open.

He was persistent, but I was having a really hard time breaking the orgasm barrier. Until he started talking. He talked about the sex we'd just had, about his cock hurting me, and then he was telling me to come for him.

"I can't," I whispered. I wasn't there.

He didn't care though, he just kept talking, and what seemed like an eternity later, I was vibrating, screaming with my arm clutching his head. But he didn't stop.

"Oooh, girl's gonna come again. Gooood fuck hole," he whispered, my world hinging on the motions of his fingertip. I flew away. The second orgasm overshadowed the first by miles.

"Oh my GOD," I screamed as I came, my body arching up and vibrating helplessly.

Still, he didn't stop. The third orgasm was heaven itself unleashed upon my brain. Screams poured from me and my fingers clutched at him, at nothing, at the bed, at whatever they could grab. I broke out into a fine sweat and I was so, so sensitive that every few seconds another orgasm was crashing over me, each one just as good as the third.

"Look at you, fuck toy," he whispered.

"I can't, I can't, I can't come anymore," I panted, just getting over another one.

"Don't give me that!" he growled. "Come for me!" he said, and I did, because his finger just kept touching me in that magic, delicate way that makes me crazy.

"Oh God, Oh, fuck, oh my GOD oh fuck," I kept panting, helpless, tossing my head, trying everything just for another breath of air.

I could feel his cock, hard against me again.

"I have this hard cock here," he said, his finger still creating waves of sensation and setting fire to my brain. "I could stick it in you, but it might hurt you. You want that? You want me to hurt you with my cock again?"

Oh my God. He really just asked me that, while my insides still burned and ached. And I did. I wanted him to fuck me again.

"Fuck, yes," I panted. "Hurt me with your cock, hurt me with your cock. Hurt me with your cock."

He managed to push me over onto my side and slide his cock inside me without taking his finger off my clit - or if he did, I didn't notice it. The burning pain I felt as he entered me was dampened by the intense joy I felt of having him inside me again so soon - and then the pain was GONE. My top leg was over his hip, and his finger just kept delivering the goodness, and he was huge and hard inside me and I screamed with the joy of it - and then he made me come again, pressing his cock as deeply as possible into me. I felt him hot and hard inside me as I spasmed, and I screamed even louder.

"So fucking good," I gasped, disbelief warring with the extreme pleasure I was feeling.

The floodgates on my own verbosity had lifted and I screamed and talked just as dirty as I could have ever asked him to. "So so good to come all over your fucking cock," I gasped out after he held me down through another orgasm.

My brain exploded somewhere around here - I'm not entirely sure what happened. But it was amazing and splendorous and the entire night made me remember why I adore this man so very much.

I do remember, after he had pulled me into his arms, that I whispered in a joking rebuke: "You didn't hurt me with your cock at all."

"I noticed," he responded, somewhat smugly.

He has a right to be smug.

Masochist, part 1

Oh, I wanted him. He'd made me want him and I was already in deficit mode so it really wouldn't have taken as much effort as he'd given it to make me beg. Then he was on top of me and his cock entered me - just a little at first, as I shrieked. Not even halfway in and it was already too big.

It was hurting. His cock was too big - either it had grown during our days without vaginal sex or my vagina had shrunk. At first it was a pleasant, stretchy sort of pain, but as he continued fucking me for what seemed like forever, it became the dull throbbing pain of being punched internally over and over. My insides felt swollen and he kept fucking.

"It's too big," I kept saying as I cried out. "It hurts," I would beg.

"Is my cock too big for you? Does it hurt you when I fuck you? Like this?" he would ask, driving his hips down, his cock forcing all of itself inside of me, making me scream.

There's a little problem with being a masochist.

If my husband is hurting me to gain his own pleasure, I like it.

Even when I don't like it. Even when it's actual pain, I like it. I like it because it's for him, because he's enjoying himself, because I "don't have a choice." I revel in the pain while he is causing it. Afterward, though, I feel broken, achy, unhappy.

I was begging, close to sobbing, before he stopped. "Too big, too big, too big," I groaned, wriggling my hips, trying to roll to my side. He finally relented, rolled off me, stroked my body while I panted for air. My pussy throbbed and felt bruised.

"Had enough of a break yet?" he asked while I gasped for air. "Ready for me to fuck you again?"

I was speechless. I was not ready for such a thing. Under normal circumstances I would have begged to suck his cock, but with the incredible mass of blisters on my lip we couldn't even kiss, much less put his cock near those horrible things. Not that I could open my mouth that far anyway.

He interrupted my train of thought: "Of course you are! Turn over." His hand pushed me over onto my side, and his cock nudged at my opening. He penetrated me and I squealed and pulled away.

"Oh, does that hurt? Do you think I care? Give it here, I want to fuck it," he growled.

I obeyed, and the entire exchange burned itself into my memory. My favorite part. The part I would replay over and over in my head, as I held still while he invaded my bruised insides, as I squealed while he delivered pain with his enormous cock.

I couldn't handle it docilely for long. I was trying to pull away, but his hands kept our midsections locked together, even as I tried to escape. "Where do you think you're going, girl? I'm fucking you here."

I have a safeword.

I didn't want it. The pain was consuming me, but his dominance was like a drug. I would endure anything for him. Give it here, I want to fuck it, he growled in my memory.

"Good fuck hole," he growled in my ear, and I shuddered. "I'm gonna come inside you. You want that?"

"I... I don't know," I answered honestly. Sometimes it burns terribly, and I was afraid this would be one of those times since I was already suffering quite a lot down there.

"I guess you'll let your master decide then, huh?" he asked, and I heard the soft groans of his orgasm. "There you go," he said, slowly pumping his spent cock inside me.

I buried my face in the bed, and there were tears. I was still terribly turned on but didn't see how anything could come of the mass of pain between my legs. The tears were more in frustration than anything. He was dismayed by the tears. "Why didn't you safeword?" he asked.

"That's the problem. I didn't want to."

"Poor, complex girl," he said, pulling me into his arms and kissing my cheek. "Good thing for you I know how to be gentle," he murmured as his hand wandered between my legs.

To be continued. . .