Old Erotica

This is an old piece of erotica: the first completed piece that I ever wrote, in fact. I wrote it for Wolf, years ago, an re-found it recently.

Note from the wording that this was a bit before I really got comfortable with my dominant side.

It starts with you on my bed. Spread-eagle, tied firmly with soft, strong ropes. I watch you watching me, naked, your eyes dark with desire. It makes me smile to see you that way… helpless and desiring.

I am kneeling over you, smiling, enjoying that you don’t know what is coming next, and that you can’t touch me the way that your face shows that you would so dearly like to.

Normally, this is not the side of the ropes I prefer, but just now, with you, I revel in it. I told you once that you make me want to lie before you and bare my belly in submission, and at the same time take your throat in my jaws, and bite until you know I can bite harder. This is the latter half of me.

I see myself bending down, raking my nails lightly up your thigh, watching you squirm as I slowly exhale one hot breath over your dick. Feeling my own body grow heavy and moist in anticipation of feeling you inside me. Licking my way lightly up the length of you, returning to do it over again, knowing that the sensation is so light as to be almost tickling, before taking you all into my mouth in one hot rush and hearing you gasp while I stare into your face. I feel my own breasts grown heavy with the desire to be touched, but for the moment deny that pleasure to both of us, focusing instead on teasing you with long, slow strokes of my mouth. Every so often I’ll stop, just to watch your eyes fly open and find me before reaching down again and taking your balls into my warm, waiting mouth.

It’s intoxicating- feeling, seeing, hearing your reactions.

I let myself grow tired of this play, and crawl up the length of you, nipping and nibbling as I go, reminding you of the sharpness of my teeth should I choose to use them while you lie helpless. The apprehension on your face is sweet… I think you sometimes forget that I am not so sweet, or innocent, as you remember. Your nipple is under my tongue now, and I roll it around a little, feeling it tighten still further, and tasting the salt of your skin. Your breath is a little faster now, and it makes me smile as I close my teeth lightly!- so lightly- around your nipple, and feel you jump. I consider biting harder, but decide to behave for the moment, instead straddling you and leaning forward until my breasts brush your face. I can feel your mouth opening, trying to catch one, but I move just enough to deny you, feeling my own nipples harden still further as they sweep the stubble on your cheeks. “Say please,” I purr into your ear, letting you hear the satisfaction in my voice.

I want you to beg. I want to hear your voice break, the way it has once before.

I wait, taunting you, rolling my hips over you so that you can feel my own wet readiness just barely out of reach. I restrain a laugh, feeling your hips thrust up against me, seeking. I roll my hips just enough to stay at the very edge… not quite allowing you to penetrate, but enough for you to feel how very close you are, my breasts still that same millimeter out of reach…. Until I hear you give in, hear your voice crack, just a little as you say, “please.”

In that moment, I thrust my hips down, taking all of you inside me in one movement as I did earlier, but so much tighter, so much wetter, even as I give you the breast your mouth has never stopped seeking. I feel you groan at the sudden sensations even as I cry out at the feeling of your mouth on me. Life is, momentarily, perfect with you sheathed tightly inside me, your mouth on me. You thrust further into me, and though I had intended to draw away again, to tease more, I find my body uncooperative. It wants you inside me, and I cannot really argue, so cooperate instead, rolling my hips down again to meet you, pressing you further into me. I can’t help but cry out as your mouth tightens on my breast again, and nearly pull away, throwing my head back in pleasure.

Though I had intended also to draw this out, to slow our rhythm and prolong both our pleasure, I find myself unable. My instincts match yours, and we find a fast, hard rhythm, guaranteed to end this too soon but I think we are both past caring. I tear myself away from your mouth to lean back a little, pressing you into me almost to the point of pain and watching myself envelope you… remembering your words so long ago, “You like watching me come into you,” while you held my hips and thrust your way into me. The memory still makes me shudder, and I do so now, knowing that you will feel it.

I find myself craving the taste of your mouth again and lean forward to kiss you, nibbling your lip very lightly first… a gentle contrast to the fierce rhythm of our hips. I feel my own body tightening in response to yours, and know that while I cannot climax myself this way I can sure as all hells enjoy yours.

I hear you choke the words out near my ear, “Please don’t stop…” and smile, tightening myself around you without losing rhythm. Your body shudders against mine, and I lay one hand against your cheek, drawing your eyes to mine as I feel your climax begin. They are beautiful, swirling black in the depths of your orgasm, and I hold them with my own, pressing down a little further to continue your pleasure as long as possible, until I feel you shudder beneath me and lie still. Only then do I stop my own movements, leaning forward across you and kissing you gently.

Sober

Last night, as we were lying in bed, Jack was listening to music- "Tool," actually. "Sober," specifically.

A man sang it to me once, 6 and a half years ago, sitting in my little green Volvo on a cold winter's night.

There's a shadow just behind me

Shrouding every step I take

Making every promise empty

Pointing every finger at me

Joseph.

I bonded him out of jail, at a cost I don't like to contemplate now.

I brought him into my home, into the apartment I'd secured.

I sat beside him in court, and I held his hand. I promised him that I would keep him safe.

Jesus, won't you fucking whistle

Something but what's past and done?

Jesus, won't you fucking whistle

Something but what's past and done?

On his 34th birthday, I made him a birthday cake- butter recipe yellow with homemade chocolate frosting. The same cake I'd made for my own recent 18th birthday.

The day I bonded him out of jail, he walked into the restaurant where we worked, straight back into the kitchen. He wrapped his arms around me and lifted me off the ground, exclaiming, "Baby! You have no idea how much I love you right now!"

I had just signed on his $15,000 bond, and he'd promised me that he wouldn't leave.

I am just a worthless liar

I am just an imbecile

I will only complicate you

Trust in me and fall as well

I remember the night that the man OD'd in our complex. Fox, my brother, had seen him first, but Joseph was the first one to run down. He cared for the man until the ambulance that we called arrived. Afterwards, we went to Waffle House.

He told me that he was a cocaine addict. He never lied to me about that- he told me that he never forgot about it, never stopped craving it.

I will find a center in you

I will chew it up and leave

I will work to elevate you

Just enough to bring you down

I remember the last night that I saw him, although I hadn't known then that it would be. He took me out on the motorcycle which he and my brother shared- my brother also lived with us, and I was supporting them both- to the Botanical Gardens, and we talked there for hours.

He told me that I needed to stop trying to be so much of an adult, that I needed to lighten up and be young. I remember laughing bitterly, thinking that I was the only one contributing to my little household, and if I wasn't an adult then who would be? He told me a lot of things, but I don't remember most of them.

But I remember him telling me that I was beautiful, and that I was too young to try to be so old.

Trust me

Trust me

Trust me

Trust me

Trust me

Last night, I listened to, "Sober," and I cried. I saw his laughing black eyes, remembered the taste of the ceviche he made for me. I remembered the heat of his skin as he slept beside me, and picture of his daughter he'd kept on the mirror in our apartment's bathroom. I remembered the scent of his leather jacket when I wore it to school because I didn't have another one, and the look on his face when I presented him with his birthday cake. I felt his hand smacking my butt as he and my brother taught me to wait tables, and remembered the bitterness in his eyes when our manager fired him for being arrested and missing 3 weeks of work.

I remember the night that I realized that he was gone. The night that I realized that he wasn't coming back, that he had left and left me with a $15,000 bail bond hanging over my head. I remember how long that I cried, the detectives showing up at my door early in the morning int he hopes that they would find him sleepy and tousled in my bed. I remember how angry that I was, how betrayed. I remember my brother asking me if I'd really expected him to stay, and his look of shock when I replied simply, "He promised."

Why can't we not be sober?

I just want to start this over

Why can't we sleep forever?

I just want to start this over

Betrayal

LtCol David Grossman refers to interpersonal violence as the “universal human phobia”. He says that it scares people more than spiders, more than snakes, more than *gasp* public speaking. He discusses, in chapter 2, how betrayed we feel when we are confronted with interpersonal violence, because it doesn’t fit out world-view.

I love that look of betrayal. I love that expression of shock- the widened eyes, dilated pupils, open mouthed shock and betrayal- when I am violent to them. I want that betrayal right now.

I want to see you kneeling on the floor for me, to stroke your skin gently, speaking lovingly, just before the open-handed smack across the face- the one that I put my whole arm into, that snaps your head to one side. I want to watch your eyes fill with involuntary tears behind the shock and betrayal. It isn’t supposed to be like this, your eyes will say. You’re supposed to warn me before you hurt me.

No, I’m not. Not today. Today I want to watch you recoil from me, watch your fear and confused not-quite-anger-yet, watch you search your mind frantically for anything you might have done to explain this sudden pain, to legitimize this violence.

Silly boy, search for a way to legitimize my violence. You understand now how a rape victim feels when she searches her mind for what she might have done to invite her attack.

Legitimize my violence, while I watch you. I can see the thoughts racing through your mind, searching for a reason why I’ve hit you.

You don’t get it yet. I’m hitting you like rape- it’s because I like it, because I like the power and your response, and because I like the violence.

I want to hit you, and I want to watch your face go tight with shock and betrayal.

Fucking hot

By the darling Roger of Dirtyboy's Dirty Thoughts:

Making you mine

Old HNT

Sorry guys, but this week has been insane with the start of school, and I haven't had the chance to find someone to shoot the yoga set that I want. So here's an HNT that my awesome USB took.

(Shut up, the torn jeans count- and not a single word about my stance, my back and hip were killing me that night)

Roofies

I had a fantasy about him. About inviting him by the house, preparing a cup of tea with an extra ingredient- Flunitrazepam, known in common parlance as “a roofie”.

It’s odorless, tasteless, and dissolves in liquid… and since my chai tea is, as Jack puts it, “black as night and sweet as sin,” it would never be noticed. They’re not easy to get here, in the US- flunitrazepam was never approved by the FDA, but it’s widely prescribed and distributed in Mexico, Columbia, and Europe. Not easy, but not that hard to find, if one has resources.

Flunitrazepam takes 15-20 minutes to start showing an effect, so its use requires careful timing. Overdoses can cause coma and even death, but he’s not a small boy so I wasn’t too worried. Long-term use can create physical and psychological dependence, but I only need it once. It takes up to 26 hours to wear off, and he has a clean metabolism, so I planned for him to be out for between 20 and 30 hours.

I had a fantasy about him. About the way that his speech would get a little slurred, his eyes heavy, until eventually he slumped over onto my couch, asleep. About moving him to a prepared place, letting him sleep for most of a day while I prepared, and then letting him wake.

Oh, the scene in my mind was beautiful: a dimly lit room where he wakes slowly, feeling hung-over. It takes a few moments for him to realize that he is stripped naked, and tied lengthwise over a large padded horse, at just the right height for my cock… his head is dropped limply forward, and it his jaw is already getting sore from the large ring gag I forced into his mouth while he slept. He wakes, slowly, confused and head-sore, and lifts his head- a useless gesture given that he’s blindfolded. I’ve been watching for this moment, and my cock is in his mouth before he realizes that someone is there. Oh, his struggling is sweet! He is pulling back and fighting the cuffs, but I’ve prepared well- they are all reinforced, and even his strength isn’t enough to free himself. I know that he’s panicking, know that he’s terrified, confused… and aroused. Forced oral is a turn-on, and he’s been conditioned to love it… not that he has any choice at the moment, his mouth forced open for me and his body held tightly by leather and steel.

I’m fucking his mouth now, my cock in his throat, and he’s gagging and there are tears running down his eyes. I want to grab his hair and force him down harder, but I’ve been careful to ensure that he cannot tell that it’s me- freshly showered and scented with a new cologne, fresh clothes, washed in a different, scented detergent. His sense of height is distorted by the blindfold and the horse…but I know that if I touch him, if I tangle my hands in his hair, then he will know my touch.

And that’s no fun… I want to ensure that he is as frightened as possible, that he is as disoriented, confused, and aroused as possible.

I had a fantasy about him.

First day

Today is my first day back in class in much too long a time. I am taking 18 credit hours this semester, and I'm thrilled with it.

But for now, on the first day, I'm bored to tears by the usual introductory speeches. I'm supposed to be engaging my brain, thinking about how to look at the world sociologically, and pull myself back to see the big picture.

What I'm thinking about, instead, is Jack. I'm thinking about the taste of his skin on our bedsheets. I'm thinking about the curve of his ass when he sleeps on his stomach, about the feel of it beneath my hand when I run my palm over his body. I'm thinking about the scent of his mouth on mine, and the way that his fingers clench on my skin when we kiss. I'm thinking about the press of his body against mine and the taste of his sweat as he moves inside of me.

I'm thinking about the feeling of his skin beneath my nails as my body spasms around him, about the curve of his body against mine when I spoon him- the warmth of him against my abdomen and groin. I'm thinking about the taste of his lips, like sweet and spicy tea, and the way that they give beneath my teeth.

I'm thinking about the man who will be my lover, when all others are gone.

Anatomy Lesson

I want you today.

Want you stretched tight, wrists bound to ankles in a reverse hogtie, want to watch it slowly set your hips to aching. I want to put a gag in your mouth so that you can't protest, can't safe, can't tell me, "No."

I hate it when you tell me, "No".

So here, in my head, you can't.

I want to straddle you, put extra pressure on your wrists and ankles and watch the way your eyes tighten with the pain of it.

And then I want to start to play with you.

I want to run my fingernails down your chest, extra pressure over your nipples, and watch the lines turn red. I want to take a knife to those same nipples and press the serrated edge to the tender flesh and watch your eyes grow wide.

I want to cut them off, cut out your piercings just for fun.

I feel a little mad today, a little sociopathic. I feel the darkness in my the back of my eyes swimming to the forefront, and it makes me want to touch you.

To hurt you.

To break you.

I want to flip you over, watch you strain to open your legs for me, and press a plug inside you. I want to turn it on and feel it buzz through your hip bones when I flip and straddle you again.

I want to run my knife down your chest again, want to watch the dark line of blood well up in its wake, and draw pretty patterns on your skin.

Or maybe I'll just write: "Slut." "Cunt." "Whore." "Bitch."

"Meat."

Words, words naming you, words identifying you. Words telling you your place in my world right now.

Right now, in my head, you're not my lover, not my sometimes-Dominant, not my friend or my partner.

You're meat, and I want to play butcher.

I want to drag the knife from the hollow of your throat straight down your sternum- past that spot you love to bruise on me!- and down your belly, over the abdominal muscles: the rectus abdominus, down the linea alba, to the pyramindalis. I want to stop just above your groin, just above that cute little cock that I know will be hard for me now.

I want to watch you whimper and squim, watch your fantasies of castration light up your eyes, warring with the fear of what you see in my eyes- the thought that this time, I just might not stop.

Even in my head, my hands are shaking now, shaking with eagerness, anticipation, the desire to do it.

To cut you open and expose the most intimate parts of you to light, to slice through skin and expose muscle to view, and to stroke it while you shudder like a fly-stung horse. To conduct an anatomy lesson on your body: here the hip flexor, here the serratus anterior, below it the tensor faciae latae, the adductor longus, the sartorius and gracilis.

I want to find the nerves and name them, stroke them with my fingertips: inside the groin the anterior branch of the obdurator nerve, which gives you sensory input from the medial thigh. The femoral nerve, hidden beneath the iliac fascia muscle and temptingly close to the femoral artery.

I want to cut you open, my love, and suck the blood off of my fingers.

Boobies HNT

So I figured it was time to do a sexy one again- enjoy!

Release

I was crying against his chest.

Fuck, I hadn't meant to do that, hadn't felt it coming on.

Oh, I knew I was stretched wire-tight and close to snapping- cutting Wolf from my life, losing Devilpup, worrying about money and school, and stretched for time- but I hadn't realized that I was this close, so close that all it took was the momentary safety of his arms for the tears to overflow.

I started to pull away, started to apologize, but he laughed. "I've never seen you cry before," and his voice was so deadpan that I actually jerked in shock, my voice a little girl's: "Yes, you have!" and I blushed crimson when he laughed at me.

"Besides, I like it when you cry." HIs voice was huskier now, that sound he gets when he's about to hurt me, and I melted into him before I could stop myself.

He needed to go, had a long drive home... but I couldn't stop myself from responding to him.

And then I was bent in half over my couch, my calves aching with the stretch but my back and ass eagerly arched up to him. It's always like this when I let myself fall down the rabbit hole with him... one moment I'm in control, considering, thinking, weighing alternatives... and the next I'm nothing but a throbbing pile of nerves and needs in his control.

Part of me hates it- hates the vulnerability that it creates in me- but the rest of me melts eagerly into his hands. He's the only person these days I feel safe enough with to let go, and I've been hanging on painfully tightly lately.

I wish I could write you hot porn about the things he did to me, the way that he hurt me until I cried for him, and not just for myself. I wish that I could describe the things that he did and the sexiness of it... but I can't. I can only remember flashes of the actual events, the actual blows...

My voice, small and nearly unintelligible as it escapes a throat clogged with tears, "Hurt me please until I have an excuse to cry," and the way that his eyes lit up in that insanity that I love so much.

His fists, thudding into my ass and thighs, the sharp pain of each spank until I'm writhing away from him, unable to stop myself... and his hand in my hair, painfully tight while his voice whispers viciously in my ear, "keep your ass where I want it, bitch," until I struggle to obey him.

His eyes, lit up with demonic pleasure at my tear-streaked and reddened face, telling me how hot it makes him to see me cry like this. He is so beautiful, I remember thinking briefly, before I couldn't think anymore at all.

My mouth on his chest, him telling me to suck his nipple while I cried, and my struggles to obey and please him around my sobs, the vicious pleasure on his face while I strain to obey him.

My face resting on his thighs while I'm kneeling on my hard floor, kissing gently, thanking him over and over, unsure if any sound is escaping my mouth or not... but knowing that he can hear me.

Bra HNT

Thanks to USB for taking this pretty pic :)

Healers, heal thyselves

I knew that I needed release, and I hoped to find it in sadism tonight. There is no one available I could bottom to, I thought.

But dyring the auction, I sat next to a beautiful woman in a marvelous waist-cincher corset. We chatted, and she told me she does cuttings and piercings.

The words were out of my mouth before I knew what I'd said, "If you have the energy tonight, I think I'd like to bottom to that."

I wonder if she noticed how stunned I was that I'd just said that. Just asked to bottom to someone I had just met, and not only bottom but offer them my flesh in the most intimate ritual that I know.

But she readily agreed, and I arranged the medical room for midnight. The Witching Hour, in popular lore, and a closing to Lughnassad, the first of the festivals of harvest.

The night was lovely- a beautiful boy to play with courtesy of his lovely Lady, some excellent company, and a nice athmosphere. But in me was growing a low buzz of excitement that I didn't even recognize for what it was until I saw her again.

She led me into the medical room, and we discussed the preliminaries. I have low blood sugar, but I'd eaten. I'm a bit of bleeder, don't mind people watching. My mind was still unfocused, looking for something but unaware of what. I was excited, knew that I needed this, but something was missing.

And then she asked me, "What design do you want?" and it snapped into place.

This was my ritual. This was my healing.

I bared my breasts, and the discussion began.

Once, long, long ago, my patroness was Artemis, the Huntress. Night-swift and sheer, cruel and loving and loyal and wild. Goddess of the Moon, of Hunters, and of Virgins. In her guise as Hecate, Queen of the Witches and Guardian of the Crossroads.

I learned of my Lady of the Wild Places in the 6th grade, in a book of Greek mythology. I had no idea what paganism was, that anyone still believed in or worshipped the old Gods. But I walked the woods near my home, a wild and free thing, and I talked to her. I asked her questions, I told her my secrets, and I came home comforted.

When I was 13, I learned of my faith. Mostly, I learned that I'm not alone in what I'd come to believe.

When I was 15, I lost my virginity in a story which you can read here, but I'll not go into today. But I still belonged to Artemis because I was still a virgin in the Greek sense of the word- a woman who is owned by no man. Chastity had little to do with it, it was that she- and I- belonged

only to ourselves.

When I was 17, I met Wolf.

And I no longer believed that Artemis was a suitable Patroness for me, because he owned me. Oh, not in a D/s sort of way, but he owned my heart, and it was on him that I based most of my decisions and it was for him that I tried to change who I was.

For 7 long years, I've missed my Patroness, my first Goddess and one of my dearest friends. I've spent 7 years believing that I belong, on some level, to a man.

Last night, during the Witching Hour, with a Priestess as my Guide (trust me to go to a BDSM party and meet a Priestess!), I reclaimed my Self, my Heart, and my Goddess.

She leaned over me, and we shared ourselves and our hearts as she sliced into my flesh. She has her own wounds, as do we all, and the ritual we shared healed some of hers, too. I'm grateful for that, I wouldn't have it any other way than that my healing aided in someone else's as well- and I believe that the Universe knew that when It engineered this little bit of synchronicity.

The scalpel is sharp, and in the books they say that there is no pain because of it. They lie.

I Am My Own.

No, I am not ignoring or forgetting my amazing Jack- but he has never sought to own me, merely to share in my life.

I had to breathe, in, out, in, out, in out, and she checked on me. Compassion and love and pain and healing in her eyes the mirror of my own.

I Am My Own.

Not Wolf's, not any man or woman's.

It took a long time, getting the curves just right. I've practiced this myself to do on Lucivar, and it's hard. But my right breast- the one which they say that the Amazons, worshippers of Artemis, cut off to shoot better- is scarring now with a small crescent moon, the symbol of my renewed bond with my Goddess, and my healing from a wound that is 7 years old.

I Am My Own.

Thank you, Lady Steele, for your gift of healing.

Not the sexy

In the depths of night, we count the lives our actions have cost, but we are not given to know the number we have saved. -Anonymous

It's easy to count the cost of the lives you've taken, the hearts you've wounded. They are clearly visible, obvious in the harsh light of self-reflection. The remembered tears in a lover's eyes when you hurt them, the cold cast of the dead man's skin whom you couldn't save. It's terribly easy, in the deepest darkness of night, to count the cost of the lives you've taken and the hearts you've wounded. Your nightmares show you clearly the accusing eyes of the dead, the weeping voices of people you've harmed- whether witting or unwitting. Your memories in the dark of night offer you a litany of faces, of names, and endless stream of, "I should have's".

But it is not given to use to know the lives we've saved, the hearts we've mended all unwitting. No one knows, in the dark of night, how many lives they've turned around with a kind word, or how many hearts they've mended with courtesy and respect. No one knows the number of lives they've saved by giving the keys to a friend when drinking, or being the friend who's stayed sober. We don't know the lives we've saved by sitting and listening to someone who's hurting, or stopping to help someone on the side of the road.

We don't know whose lives we've changed by being courteous and treating people kindly... and perhaps teaching them, all unwitting, how they deserve to be treated. We don't know whose wounds we've healed simply by being an unjudgemental ear.

The soldier knows only those lives he's taken, and it is they which haunt him in the hours before dawn. He knows the deaths which follow him, knows the accusing eyes of the comrades he couldn't save. But it is not shown to him the lives he saved, the attacks his presence thwarted, or the laughs of the children who will grow up because of him.

It is given to us the burden to count our dead, that we might be more gentle in our lives- but only the Gods can count those we've saved.

Goodbye, ashke

I said goodbye to Wolf yesterday.

Not zhai'helleva, not 'see you later'. Goodbye.

I don't say goodbye much. I say, "tschus," which is one of several German words for "see you later," (The primary version, "auf wiedersehen," literally translates as, "to be seen later"). I don't say goodbye. It's too final, too strong.

I don't let go well. Not even of those I should. I never have.

Wolf has been in my life for 7 years, he was my first real lover- the first person to teach me that sex could not only not hurt (thank you, Jewel!), but that it could feel really good. Before Wolf, I knew that only in the abstract.

He is the one who, by betraying me, taught me how strong that I am.

But he crossed the last line yesterday, threatening harm to someone who is mine. Yes, I'm aware that he views this person as his, but you do not protect someone by threatening them with harm.

Hurt me, break me, betray me, and I will smile through my tears and offer you forgiveness.

Harm someone who is mine to protect, and I will hunt you to the ends of the earth.

There can be no love, no honor, no respect left between us after this. It is not in me to hate someone I once loved, but this childish, dishonorable behaviour has broken the last remaining thread of love in my heart for him.

I feel bruised inside, soft and sad and afraid, because I do not want to walk away from someone I spent so much of my time and energy loving. I don't want to give up, to abandon a love that was once the most important thing in my life- a love I based more decisions around than I'll admit even here, a love I believed would last forever. I don't want to admit that we failed even as friends.

But I cannot sustain a friendship with someone who can't be civil to me, someone who threatens his own brother out of anger at me, someone who has betrayed me at every turn and now seeks to betray his own brother.

So goodbye, ashke. I will miss you, but I'm remembering what I had forgotten- my life is better without you in it.

Bruises HNT

I did this to myself trying to lift Rigger's motorized wheelchair into my car.

Note to self: 105lbs does not easily lift 350lbs.

Voices

I am tired tonight, the weight on my shoulders pressing me down and to the floor.

I find myself, inside the safety of my own mind, curled tight in the corner and rocking. It's been a strange day, a strange week, a strange year, and I am paying the toll tonight, paying for a ten-year-old love I didn't believe in.

His words echo in my ears, "When you left, I just gave up."

My mind screams that it wasn't my responsibility to be his motivation, it wasn't my job to be his impetus to grow up... but my raw and vulnerable heart, scraped bloody by too many responsibilities, accepts this one, too, as my due.

As what I deserve.

And I'm left curled in the corner, hiding from the angry words in my own head, which have taken on his voice and the pain in it.

Once... and again...

It's morning. My mind knows it, waking quickly despite my exhsuated body's protests. Lucivar and I didn't get home until nearly 2am, and I'd lay heavy wagers that I didn't get more than an hour of sleep at a time.

And yet my mind is awake, as always, instantly buzzing with the knowledge of Lucivar's warm weight pressed against me. I can't resist pressing my face to his skin and inhaling his scent- it really is an aphrodisiac, because instantly, my body and mind agree on one thing and one thing only.

We want him.

Now.

Oh, I always want him, this is nothing new. But right now as he's curled in sleep, eyelids a thin shield against the world outside of his dreams, his eye makeup smudged into something between sluttiness and vulnerability, his cupid's box mouth loose and pink, the wanting is an instant, fierce ache.

It's only been since yesterday afternoon that I fucked him, and I slept curled against him through the fitful night, but it already seems too long. And when he turns, stretching a little, eyes opening through smudged eyeliner, I am transfixed. He wriggles a little, adorable ass mocking, inviting, while the smooth length of his back beckons me, a call it takes little deliberation to answer and then I'm atop him. Straddling his smooth ass, one arm around his chest and throat and he responds instantly, my adorable little slut, bucking his ass against my groin. I know what he wants, it's the same thing that I want. That I always want.

But my strapon is in the car, still in my toybag from the night before, and I mutter a soft, heartfelt curse. His chuckle is low and deep, one of the most masculine things about him, as he reminds me that there are glass dildos on the nightstand.

I'm in motion before he finishes, the bumpy glass heavy in my hand, quickly lubed, and his pretty little ass quickly filled. It's not my cock, not my body moving inside of his, but his low hiss of pleasure as it enters him is enough.

It takes bare seconds to find the rhythm of this one, of my wrist and hand pressing it deep into his ass as I lie beside him, my lips on his shoulder, my teeth in his back, my free hand clutched in his. Rocking it, inside and out, finding that spot by trial and error and staying when I hear him moan and whimper, rocking against me in desperation.

My slutty little girlfriend is beautiful like this, and I tell him that. I'm such a lucky boi to have a girlfriend who's such a little slut, who'll take my cock so eagerly, any time I want. And maybe that's what I'll keep him around for... he doesn't need a job, a house, a life... I'll just take him home with me and keep him tied up and gagged and fuck him whenever I choose.

His whimpers are almost words now.... "please, please, please..." and it's making me wetter and wetter while I fuck him. His moans are lower now, that almost-bass sound that I love because it means he's about to cum. I speed up inside of him, nearly shoving the glass cock into him in response to his whimpered, "please please harder please!" and he explodes against me, his body bucking and shaking against mine, little sounds of ecstasy and agony drawn from his throat and I slow my rhythm and deepen it, hitting that spot hard with every thrust, prolonging the pleasure for him until he collapses into the bed, into me. Only then do I slow the cock inside him, simply rocking it gently while he thanks me with blurred eyes.

Beautiful boi, my adorable girlfriend.

We curl up together as he comes down, my groin cupping his bottom, one arm wrapped around his waist, the other brushing his hair gently away from his face. I can feel the dildo inside him, pressed against my mons and it feels so much as thought it belongs there that I can't resist rocking my hips, pressing the dildo a little deeper into him. He shifts, moans a little, and I smile, pressing my lips to his spine. My hips quickly find a rhythm, spooning my girlfriend, fucking him, my hand creeping up to his throat, into his hair, wrapped in his collar. He is quickly whimpering again, moaning, and I am whispering in his ear how lucky I am to have such a cute little girlfriend, so good and sweet and slutty for me. I'm asking him in a hoarse whisper if he likes my cock waking him up in the morning, chuckling low and evil at his frantic, "yes!", and telling him that most girlfriends don't like morning sex, most girls aren't this slutty, and he is whimpering and moaning, rocking back into my hips as they pound the glass relentlessly into him.

I can feel him start to shake again, and it startles me just a little before I laugh into his ear, nipping it with strong teeth even as I whisper, "You're going to come again for me, aren't you, you little whore!" and he's whimpering and moaning that he might, and it only makes me more determined to push him over the edge again. My hand is wrapped around his throat and I am whispering harshly that he's going to cum again for me and my hips are insisting as well and suddenly he's shaking and writhing against me, moaning, whimpering, harsh noises torn from his throat while I'm fucking him with this borrowed cock and he's cumming around me, spasming against me and my arms are tight against him and my heart is full of love for this beautiful, beautiful boi who is moaning and coming down slowly in my arms. I want to hold him like this here forever, his scent rubbed into my skin and his body pressed tight to mine.

Sharing

I'm a little nervous, and very excited. it's been a long time since I've played, and longer since the one time I've played with this boy. Kaye is delectable as a boy, lovely as a girl, and the last time that I played with him was with Terry and Lucivar. That memory still brings dampness to my thighs, and now I'm here with his beautiful Mistress and we are preparing to hurt him.

I'm more hesitant than usual, taking my cue from her. Miss Gigi has become a good friend quickly, but new friendships can be fragile and I don't want to offend her by crossing boundaries with her boy. Besides, their relationship is beyond adorable, and the last thing that I want is to chance driving any kind of wedge between them...

but oh his naked vulnerability is too beautiful, and I have a bag full of toys beside me! Miss Gigi binds his arms, then shoves him onto the bed, gorgeous red hair swirling around a perfect heart-shaped face. She has no idea how beautiful she is every day, but particularly this moment, her eyes alight with love and cruelty and concern, all wrapped together. He is facedown, and we start on his already-red ass and thighs. We alternate caressing touches and cruel blows with our various toys. Her flogger, my Ikea toy. My fingertips, her nails. My rubber loop paddle, her lips, over and over and over. Unpredictable, intense, beautiful this partnership over the helpless body of a beautiful boy.

She remove the armbinder, flip him over. Pig-slapper to the nipples, alternating with gentle fingertips, her dragon-tail, my fingernails. His face contorts, body writhing in agony only a breath away from ecstasy. Harsh angry grunts escape his mouth and we mock him, lovingly. “Poor thing, we’re so mean to you!” I giggle, and Miss Gigi and I share a smile. I wonder if she knows that she’s breathtaking like this. We find a rhythm between us, not the ease of practice, but a half-wary consciousness of one another that eventually blends into comfort.

And then it’s clear that he’s peaking, reaching the limit of what he can take, and she halts us. It’s clear in every fiber of her being that her world is wrapped inside this beautiful boy spread in naked vulnerability beneath her, and as his eyes open it’s equally clear that this sentiment is shared. I feel like a voyeur, watching them communicate wordlessly. Her mind is still afraid of the way the she loves him, afraid of the myriad things that happen in any relationship, but it’s clear from her smile that her heart can read that adoration in his eyes. I simply lie beside them, content to bask in the reflected warmth of their love- my own loves are not present just now, but I am secure in them and content to enjoy the happiness of those I’ve so quickly come to care for.

We cuddle him between us, speaking silly words of praise, care, desire, and I can only sigh in contentment… and gratitude at having been offered the opportunity to share in this moment with them.

Pik-shers!

So, I realized recently that I have neither a camera (loaned it to USB) nor any recent pictures of myself. Since I'm months behind in HNTs, and the Marines that I write to in Afghanistan and Iraq have been requesting pictures.... any local photographically-inclined followers want to take Some HNTs and some G-rated pics of me?

Life is good

Sure, it's still hard right now. I desperately need to find a $500 loan to get my motorcycle back. The boy is still at my house, still moody and clingy. Jack is still out of work.

But.... today I added weight and a set to every machine at the gym, and time to my run on the elliptical machine. I shared a bacon cheeseburger with my lover, and had a short day at work. I came home to this house that I absolutely adore, and made a wonderful cream tea (blackberry chocolate chip scones FTW!!!) with real, homemade whipped cream, made-from-scratch scones, and the highest-quality loose-leaf tea and spent the afternoon with one of the most amazing women in my life. She's strong and vulnerable, beautiful and wise and little wild. Younger than me and with twice the accomplishment. We reconnected, and I laced her into my corset. Now, I'm curled up on the couch in my home, listening to Pandora and happy with my life.

Life just doesn't get much better than this.

Peach cobbler

There are grains of rice scattered on the floor, a trick Lucivar told me about.

My kitchen is stone tile, and the corner where he kneels is liberally sprinkled with sharp little grains of rice.

You never think of rice as sharp, until you kneel on them for a while.

I'm happily flitting around my kitchen, ignoring the boy who kneels in silent agony nearby. I'm making peach cobbler, one of my favorite desserts.

First, you blanch the peaches, letting them sit in hot water for a few minutes to loosen the skins.

Then you peel them, and then you cut them up.

Normally, I'd be making the boy do the menial labor of blanching and peeling the peaches, but I'm in the mood to draw out my cooking today.

He shifts once, and I shoot him a single, level look.

His immediate resumption of proper posture amuses me, and I smile as I return to my work.

I'm cutting the peaches into wedges now, their sweet-tart juices running messily over my knife, over my hands as I slice through soft-firm flesh.

Every few moments, I lift the knife to my lips, sucking slowly between my lips and licking the sweet juices from the sharp blade.

I know he's watching me do it. I know he's cringing and hardening at the same time.

I don't bother to look, though. I'll hear it if he moves.

The peach wedges are in the bowl now, and I'm drizzling honey and brown sugar over them, with a hint of pumpkin pie spice. Needless to say, this necessitates much more licking of fingers, with appreciative sounds for my culinary talents.

I take my time removing my sweet, wet fingers from my warm mouth.

Tossing the peaches with the honey-sugar-spice mixture, my breasts bouncing behind my apron in time with the fruit in my bowl. I can hear small keening noises from the boy now.

Layering them in the casserole dish, chopping small cubes of cold, salted butter with a santoku knife, watching him cringe from the corner of my eye. I love this knife. It's a sushi knife, originally a gift for Jack but he never uses it.

I do.

It's sharp as a razor, with a lovely ergonomic design that fits perfectly in my hand. My hands fly every time I use it, and I know he's cringing at the speed with which I bring the blade down. He know the fantasies I have about using this knife on him.

It's time for the batter now, flour and buttermilk and egg and raw sugar and spices... I'm moving quickly now, half-dancing. Baking is truly one of my great pleasures in life, and it's clear in my every movement.

He knows how pleased I am when a dish comes out well, how alive it makes me feel.

And how cruel my liveliness can be.

As I whip the batter, I watch him fromt he corner of my eye. He's not foolish enough to squirm, but there are small tears leaking from the corners of his eyes.

Excellent. The grains of rice will stick to his skin when he rises, embedded so deeply that they'll leave little red marks for hours.

I hum as I pour the batter over the peaches, ensuring that it snakes through every crack and crevice, the better to sweel and rise with the heat.

With a last smile, I set the oven timer for 20 minutes, then turn and beckon to the boy.

"Come, boy, we've just enough time to apply some heat to your ass as well as my cobbler."

He whimpers as he staggers to his feet.

Interlude

He is still dressed in the rubber he wore at the party.

His arms, chest, ass, and back are bruised, and he moves carefully but the grin on his face is unmistakable.

It's been a hard few weeks for my lover, and I'm pleased to see him so relaxed.

I'm exhausted, still a little sick. I had to leave the play area to keep myself from playing while sick... so tempting. An array of beautiful bodies laid out on a variety of playstations. I could play so easily, there are plenty willing to take the risk, but I'm too lightheaded from decongestants to trust myself.

Except with him.

He's walked me up to my room, and stands there now, looking like a fallen angel, wickedly innocent, in his Nasty Pig rubber and little-boy smile.

He's turning to leave now, turning to return to his Mistress, but I don't even remember moving and my hand is at his throat and I'm bending him over, pressing him into the bed. He still has his wide collar on, and my fingers are hooked into it- small fingers, they fit without choking him- too badly. I'm bending him back up to me until he's arched like a bow, his beautiful little ass offered up to me.

I want it.

I always want it.

Near him, I'm like a guy. I can't be within arms' reach without wanting to bend him over the nearest surface and fuck that pretty little ass.

As always, my beautiful little slut is making pleading noises, his ass grinding back into my hips.

Why don't I have my strap-on? I sigh, and shove him away from me.

I'll see you in the morning, boy.

Life catches up

I leave tomorrow morning for NYC.

SELF was amazing, but because I was sick I couldn't play. There were a few interludes I will try to write about soon, though.

On the upside, I'll be having dinner in NYC with the delectable Troy Orleans and the adorable Unspeakable Axe, as well as the darling LeatherD and possibly the amazing Catherine Gross :)

My life? It kinda rocks sometimes.

Meanwhile, I have 7 people in my house, and I still haven't packed for the trip!

Don't give up

Don't give up on me, guys. I'll write more eventually. 

Right now, my plate is even more full than usual and I'm doing a remarkably good impression of Atlas. 

Wish me luck, my friends. 

Necklace/stomach HNT

Yep, you read/saw that right :) 

This is the last of the chainmaille HNTs, so I did it against my stomach to better show off the pretty weave.