Word-picture

Your ass, raised up from the bed, your knees wide beneath you- everything about you a single curved form of slutty desire.

Your buttocks like twin curved moons, awaiting my hands, awaiting my fingers spreading you wide and opening you, invading you, taking you.

Your back arching, opening, accepting while your pretty little mouth, invisible with your face pressed into the coverlet makes soft whimpering sounds of desire. I can smell the arousal on you, the need, and I want to cover you like a stud covering a mare in season.

I love you like this, love you open and needing and slutty for me, love the indentions of my hands on your buttocks as I spread you wide in preparation.

Scenting our prey

He is apprehensive but aroused. I can smell the curiosity on him, the desire wafting from his skin and mingling with the lightly acid scent of his nervousness.

The predator in the back of my mind wakes: yawning and stretching, her claws flexing. She has been napping since the loss of Actaeon, only waking briefly when I play with Diablo. But now she is padding along the hallway of my mind, moving steadily forward until she looks out through my eyes and fills my senses.

Suddenly, everything is sharper. I can smell the perfumes of every woman in the room and how the clash with the shampoos, the colognes of every man and which ones are compatible with their deodorant.

Every color is brighter, and the individual hairs on his exposed chest are suddenly fascinating. I want to straddle him and pluck each one while he squirms and whines.

My clothing is confining, rough, and I want to strip and rub myself against him to disguise my predator's scent with his of prey.

She, the predator, looks out through my eyes and scents him. We look at him and watch the fascination grow in his face. He knows he is prey now, knows the predator has his scent. I watch him realize it, accept it- and want it.

His hug to me is brief, but tight, intense, and I can feel the desire in him- taste the scent of it, rolling it on my palate like a fine wine.

Soon, there will be a meal to accompany it.

Memories

I remember the last time that I bottomed to him.

Such a silly phrase: "bottomed to him."

I remember the last time that he pinned me down and I bared my soul to him.

I remember the last time that I cried in his arms.

Oh he was so worried as he left! Knowing that I was just post-catharsis and fragile and he was already so late, so late!

I remember his face as a study of love and worry for me, and his eyes- jade light when he is happy- forest green with concern.

But it was that concern that promised that I would be okay.

It was that concern, that knowledge- gut-deep- that he loved me, that made me certain that I would be okay when he left.

I remember kissing him and promising to call if I need him, but that I was okay.

I remember that his lips still tasted salty from my tears.

Winter Solstice

Tomorrow is the Winter Solstice, and tonight is my 2nd Annual Winter Solstice Party.

Tomorrow, after I clean up my house, I will set the table with pretty linens and delicate plates, and I will make myself a pot of tea, a plate of scones, a sandwich, and some cookies, and I will drink the tea from one of my Nana's teacups.

You see, tomorrow is a Monday, and for some reason tea rooms don't like to be open on Mondays.

I'm getting ahead of myself.

Winter Solstice is the longest night of the year, and the shortest day. It's the official beginning of Winter, and a time for introspection and planning for the new year. Winter is the dark time, the hibernating time, and it's in the winter that the stories were passed down to the next generations as oral histories.

The stories.

The stories are important.

Once, there was a little girl. Her mother was gone and her father was a gypsy, so she lived with her grandmother in a big, big house where the two of them rattled around like two peas in a big, big pod.

The house was full of secrets and mysteries, but it was also a happy a place, the most stable place the little girl ever lived, and she never, ever doubted when she lived there that her Nana loved her.

Her Nana was a little old lady with pale, pale skin and silvery hair, and a curved back that nevertheless always gave the impression of being martially straight. She was a very little old lady, but everyone obeyed her and called her, 'The Little General-" everyone except the little girl, who climbed in her lap even once she was much too big to do so, and called her Nana, or Gran.

The little girl was a tomboy, and didn't like girly things. She didn't want to sit still, or dress up for dinners,and she definitely didn't want to learn to take tea. But her Nana insisted, and made her hot chocolate instead, so they sat at the long, long table in the big, big house, and her Nana set it with pretty, delicate plates and let her pick out a teacup from her special collection of teacups. The little girl fidgeted, and whined, but she loved her Nana so she sat at the long, long table in the big, big house, and she drank hot chocolate like a little lady, and learned to eat cookies without making a mess.

When the little girl was much older, and not nearly as little anymore, she was taken away from her Nana and sent somewhere else.

She never forgot her Nana, but she was angry and hurting and young and selfish and was never as close to her Nana after that.

As such things happen, for her Nana was quite old when the little girl lived with her, one day her Nana slipped into the warm Darkness, and the girl (who was not very little anymore) grieved for a very long time.

The very next Winter Solstice, she decided to go and have tea at a local tea room, in honor of her Nana.

She sat in the beautiful room, sipped real tea this time! from a pretty, delicate tea cup very much like her Nana's, and nibbled scones and cookies and sandwiches without making a mess. And if there were tears in her eyes, well, there was a smile on her lips as she remembered the little old lady and the long, long table in the big, big house.

And she's been doing it ever since.

KISS

The knife is at his throat.

It's a pretty knife. Actaeon gave it to me. Columbia River Knife and Tool, KISS blade.

KISS is an acronym. It stands for, "Keep it simple, stupid," and this knife is designed to those standards. I like it.

A lot. Actaeon carried it every day before giving it to me, replacing the one Wolf had given me.

He takes good care of his toys- it has a nice, sharp edge, which I am currently holding to Diablo's throat.

Oh he's so pretty like this! His eyes are huge and terrified, welling with silent tears. He's afraid of knives, did I mention that?

KISS

Did you know that it only takes one pound of pressure to cut skin, boy?

No, Ma'am, he whimpers. I didn't know that.

So articulate! Clearly, I'm not doing my job.

I shift my hold on the blade, a movement USB taught me, so that the tip of the blade- sharpest point of a knife- is pressed tightly under his chin and he keens in terror.

It would be so easy to shove it home, sheathe the hard steel in his warm, yielding throat.

Nope, no Freudian thoughts there.

KISS

Holding the blade steady, thinking hard about the consequences of shoving the blade home, putting the leash back on my psychopathic side.

Just the knife, just the boy.

KISS

His eyes are filling with tears again, which he stubbornly blinks away. He won't cry in front of me, not yet.

I can have his blood, but not his tears.

We'll fix that soon enough....

DomCon HNT

I love this shot... Shoes courtesy of Joe the Shoe Guy and shot by Wicked Kitten Productions

The Whys and Wherefores

"Do you know why I'm doing this?" I ask him.

His eyes are huge, brilliant green, and locked onto my face as she shakes his head a little, whispering hoarsely, "No, Mistress."

I smile. He cringes when I smile like this. He hasn't known me long,but he already cringes when I smile at him tenderly.

He's a fast learner, my little Diablo.

But he hasn't learned this quite yet. He is accustomed to photo shoots, pretty lights and photogenic welts.

I'm not photogenic- I tried modeling once, but I hated every moment of it. I don't care what I look like when I'm hitting you. I just want to see the fear in your eyes.

But the fear is already there crinkling the skin around his eyes, so I decide to be nice and explain it to him.

I lift the little evil stick- a replacement for the one I bought last year at SouthEast LeatherFest which mysteriously disappeared after using it on someone who hated it- and his eyes widen even more. It's interesting, I didn't know he could manage that- it's rather amusing, so I tap him lightly on the nose with it, enjoying his cringing.

"I'm doing it because I want to, boy."

Another tap, another flinch.

"I'm hurting you because I think it's fun."

The next tap is to his balls, drawn up tight in arousal, and he keens a little in terror.

"I'm going to do awful things to you because I like the way your eyes get all wide and scared.

Another tap, another keening sound.

"I don't have a camera. I don't care what this looks like for the website or for any other fucking reason."

A harder tap, a high-pitched keen.

"I'm doing this because I'm just a little bit of a sociopath, and you're the stupid little whore who let me tie him up and hurt him."

His eyes are beautiful- wide and terrified and just beginning to understand....

Missing him

I am having trouble tonight.

Trouble accepting that he is gone, trouble knowing that he is not in my arms tonight and will not be again.

It is a day for regrets: foggy and bleak, everything edged with a grey soft focus lens.

In the store today, I accidentally sprayed myself with the cologne that the man who raped me wore.

I wanted to call him, wanted to whimper in remembered agony and hear him soothe me.

I saw makeup today, lovely bronzed earth tones to suit his golden skin and I wanted to buy them, wanted to paint him like the beautiful whore that he is....... only not for me, not anymore.

Most days, I understand that what we have chosen is right for both of us. Most days, I love him and accept his choices with reasonable grace.

But today I don't want to. Today I woke up afraid and hurting and missing him with a fierce aching sense of loss that nothing assuages.

Today, I miss him.

First Kiss

Diablo is wrapped around me, his long, lean body intertwined with mine. I can feel the tension in him, the sense of difference that it is a female form he is curled with, the unfamiliar curve of hip and weight of breast against his skin, and it makes me smile.

Turning my head against the weight of him, I find him watching me, watching for this opportunity to kiss me lightly, fleetingly, almost reservedly. It is a pleasure to return this kiss, to enjoy his firm-soft lips, somewhere between those of a man and a woman. His small tremors of response move me, draw me, until we are lying entwined with the warm weight of him half-atop me and his hands cradling my face as he explores my mouth slowly, learns the differences in my responses from those he is accustomed to, feels the way my fingers clench and draw him closer.

I am the first girl he has ever enjoyed kissing.

Switching with Actaeon

Actaeon has cut his hair. It leaves his cheekbones higher, more exposed, his lips (even) fuller, and the planes of his face are harsher and more masculine. He looks…. aggressive. But that makes me uncomfortable, so I tell him that he resembles a young hedgehog and feel my heart contract at his expression of distress.

There is a difference even in his walk- no longer the feminine sway of his hips to which I am so accustomed (and so enjoy watching!) but a more assertive tread of boots now.I don’t know how to respond to this person I know but do not know, this masculine side of himself to whom I’ve never been formally introduced: “Hello, who are you? I have shared my body, my heart, with you, but I don’t know you.”

I know I am being cruel, know that my small, cutting remarks are out of line, but I can’t help it. I’m disconcerted, frightened by the replacement of the boi I’ve loved with this young man I’ve only ever seen glimpses of.…. and fear as always made me angry.

It is later, and I have apologized. Seeing glimpses of the boi I love in this man I barely know has helped until I’ve begun to slowly integrate them in my head, in my heart, and let me see this man as simply another facet of the boi I love.

We are kissing, and even that is different. This is not the gentle yielding of his mouth to mine but something harsher, more aggressive. His tongue fences with mine, where before it yielded, his lips demand where before they begged. I don’t know this stranger who is kissing me with the familiarity of a lover, and it makes me tense, afraid. Who are you? Why are you pressing your body to mine as though you are my lover, as though I know you, and why do I have the unaccountable urge to yield to it?

And suddenly it clicks.

His need to express this newfound masculinity aggressively, our long-ago discussions of him as a switch, and my own trust in him. It crystallizes in a single memory of him holding me, rocking me, whispering words of comfort when I was afraid and overwhelmed, and abruptly the switch is thrown.

I know this man, he is another facet of the boi whom I love. I trust this man, who has proven that he can comfort me and still believe in me afterward, and he is worthy of this, this yielding in me which I do not give to anyone.

My body goes soft, pliant in his hands, and my mouth opens to his. There is a single startled moment as his mind registers the change in me before his hands respond- tightening their grip with a low growl, winding in my hair, his body pressing me farther into the bed and his hips opening my now-willing legs.

And I let myself sink into the trust, the surrender, which I so rarely allow myself, so rarely trust in another being as he relearns what this victory feels like with someone capable of fighting.

DomCon HNT

Outfit (and yes, as far as I'm concerned, this is half-naked!) by Marvelous Mayhem and photo courtesy of Wicked Kitten Productions

FetLife's Kinky Santa Giveaway- enter to win!

DomCon HNT

The next several HNTs will be from DomCon 2009, taken by the amazing mistress of Wicked Kitten Productions.

This particular one is of Actaeon, actually! (He does better in heels than I ever will!)

Actaeon

Actaeon and I are no more.

We are still very close friends, but he is no longer my boi.

We're okay. I'm okay, so please don't worry.

Actaeon is 23. He will be awarded his Master's degree in his chosen field this upcoming May. The entire world is open to him, and he deserves the freedom to explore it- without the emotional fetters of a relationship as committed as I seek.

I love him. He loves me.

That is not in doubt, nor has it ever been- this is a mutual decision, and we respect one another's needs.

Gods, that sounds like counseling psycho-babble! But it's true. Yes, I'm hurting and grieving a bit, and so is he. But it's a clean wound, and beginning to heal already as we help one another through it.

What this means for the future is that we will still hang out (he's coming over this weekend again), we will still play some and attend events together, but the commitment of a relationship is no longer there.

In 'formal' D/s terms, we've gone from a Master/slave relationship to being a Top and bottom who are also very close friends.

I'll start hunting again for a boy soon, but not until after the Holidays. It's too stressful, and I won't put Jack through that over the Holidays.

Meanwhile, I'm planning a Winter Solstice Party and possibly an Orphan's Christmas Dinner.

I love you all :)

Diablo and Actaeon

He is strung up from the eyebolts in my living room, his legs spread wide by one of the spreader bars my father gave me.

A very pretty boy: his body long and lean, a few tattoos in judicious places to show off the muscular curve of his arms, and the line of his back until it curves into a tightly rounded little ass. I step 'round in front of him, smiling pleasantly.

He looks so nervous! He hasn't known me long enough to get nervous at my most pleasant smile! I can only chuckle, low in my throat, and wrap the silk scarf around his eyes to remove his sight.

Poor thing... spread wide and open, exposed and vulnerable to me, sightless, naked, and trembling in fear. It sends a thrill of arousal through me, dampening my cunt inside my jeans, and I point at the floor in front of Diablo, summoning my Actaeon here in front of him. It takes little arranging, a short length of rope and a collar with a D-ring, before my pretty boys are attached to one another.

It's a beautiful sight: the open living room, Diablo tied standing spread-eagle, naked with only the purple silk scarf slashing tightly across his pretty face, and Actaeon kneeling before him equally naked and obedient, watching the rising cock before his face with something between trepidation and hunger.

Actaeon's hot little mouth tight around Diablo's cock, Diablo moaning and leaning into him, the muscles of his calves tight with the effort of not thrusting into Actaeon's willing mouth.

Actaeon's soft sounds of pleasure, the slight slurping of his hungry tongue, lips, and teeth.

And now the crack of paddle, the disbelieving half-yelp from Diablo's throat as it connects with his rounded ass.

"Awww," I whisper in his ear, "girls play rough, don't they?" as another crack catches him in the sweet spot just where his buttocks meet his thighs. it isn't long before he is whimpering, hissing, and moaning with every blow as I cycle through my favorite toys: the twisted acrylic cane, the heavy leather pig-slapper, the hickory paddle, the rubber loop paddle... he learns all of them intimately, while Actaeon continues to work him with hungry slurps of his lips and hands clutching his smooth thighs, keeping Diablo hard through pain he never thought he would stay hard through.

Such lovely, lovely boys, both of them, and we climax with a second rendition of Actaeon's birthday spanking- on Diablo this time- before retiring to the couch for a lovely, lingering, 3-way cuddle.

Good morning, beautiful

It is morning, in your bed and sunshine is streaming in through the window. I can only think blearily that it was supposed to rain today...

You are wrapped around me, a clinging liana vine boy, your naked body pressed tightly to mine. I free my arm slowly and stroke your hair while you blink at me in sleepy confusion. Are we waking up? Am I just petting you?

Good morning, beautiful

How was your night?

Mine was wonderful with you by my side...

I cannot help it, love for you is swelling up in me, and I pull you in closer to me, draw your heavy head to my breast and lay it there while you wrap yourself around my supine warmth. Your fingers are stroking my neck, your toes moving along my bare legs, and we are warm and soft and drowsily aroused together.

When I open up my eyes and see your sweet face

It's a good morning, beautiful, day...

This.... this is what I love, you wrapped around me: your warmth sinking into me, fingers brushing the little hairs on my arms and your cock drowsily aroused against my hip as your lips press into my neck from habit as much as desire.

Good morning, beautiful

To be continued

You’ve given me an idea, as we chat on instant messenger. I love talking to you during the day, especially days like today, when I am exhausted and caffeinated and it’s making me slightly sociopathic. Okay, maybe not, “slightly.”

You went hiking this weekend, and spent several days in the mountains. You tramped up hills and along ridges, through rivers and over rocks. It’s a sexy image of you: sweaty and dirty, your movements restrained by your pack, your face lighting up with the assumed freedom of the forest around you.

Maybe we’ll go hiking one day, my pet. Maybe we’ll climb up a mountain and hike along a cold, cold mountain stream. We’ll find a large rock, worn smooth by millennia of water running over its surface, polishing it, smoothing it, creating the perfect place to hurt you.

On the bank of the stream, I’ll strip you gently, lovingly, my hands warm and tender on your soft skin. I’ll lift the pack from your back, laying it aside, then slowly unbutton your shirt, smoothing it from your shoulders and letting my hands linger along your chest and shoulders.

I’ll remove your boots, briefly appearing submissive as I lift your feet to my thigh , one at a time, and draw off your boots and socks. When you’re barefoot, as I prefer anyway, I’ll remove your pants, lingering over the belt as though I’m unwrapping a long-awaited gift.

When you’re completely naked, I’ll step into my waders and unpack what I need from the backpack. Rock climbing anchors are an interesting topic. Lucivar’s Mistress could likely write a thesis on them, but I don’t know how to use them very well. However, I can set a cam into a rock, and I can loop soft, tough, infinitely useful climbing rope around your wrists, your ankles, and I can secure you.

I’ve chosen my boulder carefully. Freezing cold mountain water rubs down it in a constant stream from the falls above us, and there’s a lovely little indention from our tiny waterfall which is just the right size for your head.

You’re stretched out for me now, legs and arms wide and a constant stream of freezing cold water tricking along your back. It’s so cold, tightening your skin in goosebumps and hardening your nipples to tiny round nubs and making you look at me with wide, pleading eyes.

You don’t know what you’re pleading for, though, because your cock is harder than your nipples.

Blue and Jade Bracelet

Yes, it really is a bracelet. I'm just tiny.

And those light-colored rings? Those are jade. No, really. Real jade.

It's puuuurrty.

Priests and geldings

I’m reading the “Dexter” novels again, reading about my favorite serial killer and his Dark Passenger. Reading about his moonlit Need and his playmates.

I like Dexter.

I envy Dexter.

And tonight, I want to be Dexter. I want to find a bright, cool place- and I, who usually hates cold!- and I want to take you there. I want to press steel hooks through your pretty ankles, behind the Achilles’ tendon, and lift you up, whimpering and sobbing, the blood from your ankles running up your legs and to your groin, passing over your taut buttocks and up your back, mixing in with your hair like tears in the back of your head.

You talk about wanting voluntary castration sometimes, and tonight I want to give that to you… not that it’s likely to be very voluntary once I start.

I want to take the knife in my hand, a pretty, curved gelding knife, and run it along your thighs while you squirm and twist and beg me not to. I want to open your thighs and follow the smooth line of your sartorius, and the fat rector femoris with my fingers. I’ll drag the knife down and open up the skin of your scrotum, letting the testes pop out like two fat eggs while you scream and try to thrash. The testes are only attached to the body by the vas deferens- the long tube from which ejaculate moves from the testes to the penis- otherwise, they’re simply held to the body inside the scrotum. It would take only the slightest effort to cut through it…. It barely even bleeds.

You’re a eunuch now. In some ancient temples, particularly that of the goddesses Cybele and Artemis- who most anthropologists consider related- a male had to be castrated to become a priest of these powerful, gender-queering goddesses. Artemis was my first patron goddess, the first deity to whom I felt true kinship and a desire to serve as priestess. And now you, my pet, are qualified to serve as one of her priests. How did one do that, I wonder? Was the boy-child taken, castrated, and left at the temple steps? Or was he raised by the temple, a serious young man who chose to give his manhood to the goddess for the privilege of entering her service? Did he choose this? Did he make the cuts himself? Was he held down on the altar, screaming and flailing as you are?

It bleeds up your stomach, your chest, pooling at your neck and dripping from your hair. It’s strange how untouched your face is left, contorted and red from screaming and light-headed from too much blood around the brain….

I’m doing you a favor like this, baby… every basic first aid manual says that to control bleeding, ensure that the wound is above the heart….

Chainmaille collar and cuffs HNT

This has got to be one of the coolest things ever :)

Shaking

You're touching me, your hands tender on my skin and your body wrapped around mine. I am curled, shaking, against you, drawing comfort from your nearness and your warmth and your love. I don't feel very dominant right now, my my head buried in your shoulder- don't feel like I am presenting the image of what I am supposed to be- but I am slowly learning to trust you to love me anyway.

You're teaching me, slowly, that I don't have to be a cardboard cutout of The Dominant Woman for you, that you will love me even if I stumble, even if I cry, even if I am clingy and needy and afraid sometimes.

You're teaching me, slowly, that you will love me even if I don't wear makeup, even if I don't wear heels or even know what gender I am sometimes.

You're teaching me, slowly, that you will love me even if I am myself.

I'm shaking less now, slowly uncurling from my tight ball of old wounds and fresh pain, and you are still there. Still there touching me, kissing me... loving me.

It feels suddenly like my heart is swelling, filling with love and tenderness and this deep gratitude and my entire body responds to it, swelling and ripening and somehow deepening until I am lifting my head and capturing his lips in mid-kiss, stroking his tongue with my own and wrapping his precious, precious face in my hands.

I cannot help it now, I want him as he moans into my mouth, his hands spasming, clutching me, his hair falling into our faces and his body pressing into mine. I roll him over, straddling him, my damp groin pressed to his hard cock and my fingers tangling in his hair.

God, I love his hair.

Suddenly I realize that there are tears in my eyes, that I can taste them in our kisses and I start to draw away, start to apologize, but he draws me back down to him and kisses me again, love reflected in his eyes.

Rainbow choker HNT

I LOVE this drapey style!!

Transgender thoughts

I am sitting in Gender & Society class today, discussing the difference between those who identify as drag kings/queens, genderqueers, transgenders, or simply (simply! Ha!) as gender non-conformists. I am watching a beautifully androgynous transgender person- whom I find wildly attractive, by the way- move gracefully, strongly around the room, soliciting responses and elaborating on explanations. Their voice is low for a woman, high for a man, but measured and resonant in a way that I find incredibly sexy, and it makes me think of you.

It makes me think of you in that beautiful polka dotted dress, walking quickly and gracefully in heels. You are gender-nonconforming, genderqueer whose long slim thighs are beautiful to me, whose arched feet and rounded toes, muscled calves and smooth skin delight me. You are my gracile boi whose slim hips, lean back, high cheeks, wide eyes allure me, tempt me to run exploring fingers over your skin for hours until you whimper and squirm in need and pleasure.

Our instructor for today is discussing transmen now, discussing options for sex organs and restructuring of the clitoris into a penis. Testosterone, when combined with androgen, usually causes the clitoris to enlarge, and when it is released surgically from the pubic bone it forms a sensitive and operable cock. It makes me wonder how large my clitoris would grow with testosterone, how sensitive it would be when I fucked you.

I have this image of my changing body, of my breasts slowly tightening and becoming smaller, my face filling out into more masculine planes, the first teenage peach fuzz sprouting on my chin while my hips slimmed and my hands grew wider. I imagine my clitoris growing, hardening, while I shudder each time it brushes the fabric of my jeans for weeks, unaccustomed to so much sensitive flesh exposed. I see you before me, kneeling, taking my clitoris in your mouth and sucking it like the cock that it will be while I shudder and clench my fingers in your hair, understanding for the first time the allure of the blowjob.

I imagine your body changing, as estrogen and androgen reshape you into the person you are so much of the time already- of your shoulders slimming, tender breasts opening like buds on your chest, your facial hair dwindling and the bones of your face growing more slender and feminine. I envision your hips widening and a softness stealing over your body, a roundness as your hair grows out and your lips become even fuller. I imagine how dainty you will look, you who have already mastered the high heels I could never wear, in your soft sundresses and pretty, delicate shoes.

I imagine us together in bed, hands running over skin as we explore these new forms, learn our new selves, new partners, and both cherish the old and welcome the new.

Pink/Silver/Black Bracelet HNT

Written by Actaeon: Movie Theater

I have few expectations as we walk into the theater; she greets me with a wide smile as she always does, and I smile as I kiss her, that twinge of excitement as always makes my heart skip a beat. She sweetly takes me over, and lets me know what we're watching tonight-- Where the Wild Things Are . I feel ambivalent about the film, but I know that watching it with her will be more important than the movie itself.

We walk in, and I'm nonplussed by the empty theater. It's the afternoon; of course no one's there. But when she guides me to the very top row, I suddenly realize that I'm in for something new. I grew up reading erotic literature on sites like Literotica; I'm no stranger to the idea of play in a public place like this, but suddenly with a rush fantasy and narrative blend into reality.

As we sit, she smiles and notes the low-set armrests, and I smile, nodding, not really processing the significance. It means we can get closer, that's nice. I wonder idly if the designers of the interior of the theater had what would happen in mind.

The film starts, and we watch like any couple would; I munch on my gummi bears, a childhood favorite, and I smile as we hold hands. Shortly through the film, she pulls me into her chest, and I smile, cuddling up to her. She's so warm, I love resting like this; it feels so incredibly intimate. I haven't been feeling overly sexual for the last day or so; I'm going through a hormonal cycle at the moment, at least, that's what I'll blame my pimples on. And resting there, she slides her hand down my open button-down shirt, resting her hand there for a moment.

I feel myself flush instantly as her fingers rest on that sensitive place; they're still so tender, my body reacts quickly. I shift uncomfortably; she hadn't let me wear underwear in a while, and I felt my sensitive cock rub against the denim.

All too soon, she begins whispering in my ears, reminding me of how much of a fucking slut I am, and I blush harder, realizing that, yes, I am quite a slut. My cock's so hard in this theater. A family is nearby, in the otherwise empty theater, just far enough to be out of view, thank god. But I can hear them, I can hear the mother speaking to her children, and I'm ashamed. But not ashamed enough to want her to stop rubbing and pinching my nipples. And that is why, among other reasons, I'm a disgusting whore.

She begins caressing me, and kissing my neck. I try hard to stay still, to keep from moving, from making any show of my maddening need for more. I never think, oh, god, I want more-- it's deeper than that, something that escapes language. And I want it. Oh god, I want it so bad, she's running her fingers along my chest, I feel her wet tongue against my neck, and she turns my head, kissing me deeply. She turns my head back, and murmurs, a slightly ironic tone in her voice, "Watch the movie.."

She's nearly got me moaning out loud, now, as I watch the film. It's difficult to concentrate on the movie, and difficult to concentrate on her caresses, at once. I'm entering a strange headspace, and it's hard as well to concentrate on the fact that I'm in such a public place. When she whispers in my ear, she reminds me that yes, I'm a slut, I'm right there in the theater, practically begging to cum on my chest, and I feel myself harden. Yes. I am a slut. I am her slut. I want to crawl down onto the floor and bury my face into her moistness and suck her to orgasm. I want her to cum on my face. I want to feel her hot wet sticky cum on my mouth, I want to be bathed in her fragrance.

She has me undo my belt, and pulls my tender cock out of my pants. Oh god, I'm so painfully aroused; I listen with horror, watching the staircase, waiting for a cop to silently walk up and to expose me with a maglite. But no. I'm safe here, safe enough for Mistress to stroke my cock, to murmer into my ear. For me to make little whimpering sounds. I want her more than I can bear. I'm happy.

I'm forced to keep watching. It's not exactly a children's film, as she says-- I feel conflicted about it. I feel conflicted about myself. And I feel conflicted about the hand on my cock. I grow soft; she asks me to stroke myself. And I do. And I grow hard again, and it makes sense again. I'm a slut. That's what I am.

I want to cum in the theater, right there, I want to feel her shudder under my head as I cum for her, and eat it, and listen to her pleased murmurs, I want to hear the smile in her voice, the lovely little cruelty there. She tells me that she wants to fuck me, right there. The thought scares me, but I would open myself for her, I would bend right over that chair infront of her, cling to it, stay silent as she fucked me. As long as I could.

In my fantasies, the theater is crowded, and what starts as a subtle groping grows into a massive orgy, some bizarre feast out of the past; where humanity touches its roots, and chooses to make its fantasies reality. I feel the impression of the pressing reality that's been tearing at the plastic parapets of our happy little civilization.

I want her. I want to feel covered in cum, I want to feel it flooding my mouth, my ass, I want it in my hair, on my face, covering my back, I want to feel its stickiness dripping from my chest, I want to shake as I'm cold and aching and left sore and bleeding and crying, tossed into a small cage, a plug stuffed into my ass, a gag in my mouth, left to freeze and shake and eventually sleep. To be woken up to the same process the next day, and the next day.

And here, in this theater, I feel that reality pressing me, pushing me, holding me down and raping me.