Dichotocatocutomies

Once, I met a man.

Doesn't that sound like the beginning of some pornographic fairy tale?

Anyhow. Once, I met a man. A traveler. He had me meet him at a hotel. He was waiting in the lobby. He said he would know me when I entered. I stifled, but will I know you? Of course, I didn't. I looked around...lost, nervous. There, him. Studying me. It must be.

I was all smiles and gangly knees and elbows. How can I be soft and warm and plump and still gangly? It is possible, trust me.

He had me kneel. In the lobby. It felt so...uncomfortable. He was leaned back in his chair. I imagine he pictured me with his cock in his mouth.

That came later.

I had to purchase condoms at the front desk. Effortless casual chat, I'm good at it. I don't enjoy it. But I put it on, lest the clerk think I'm a whore. Inwardly enjoying that the clerk may, in fact, be wondering if I am. I was given money to buy the condoms. It felt hot in my hand, the money. The condoms felt hotter. I went to where he was waiting around the corner. I gave the change to him, and he took it even as he walked two paces ahead.

Near his room, he told me, finish the rest of the way on your knees. I smiled, uncomprehending. The blood in my head making it difficult to hear him well. On your knees. I smiled again, laughed. Really? On my knees? What is all this about? Remembering this is what I'm here for, on my knees, but laughing.

My purse, too long, dragging on the floor beside me. Laughing still.

His face, immobile. I choked it back, but the moment was lost.

Later, he slapped me. That knocked the smile off.

I wasn't ready. Am I now?

Hands in Neutral

I have that kind of skin. Pale. Not in that peaches and cream delicate china way, but nearing translucence in parts. I've never been careful of it. Mosquito bites scratched to scars. Sun damage masquerading as freckles.

Bruised easily.

Once, I would spot a new bruise in the shower, poke it a bit, and wonder how it was obtained. Of course, that was before the significance of bruising.

Now I see one on my arm and think...that was grabbing. Or pulling. If there is one on my thigh, I picture fingers grasping, forcing me outspread. Tiny ones on my wrist are bindings. On my throat, squeezing out my breath.

Temporary maps of my submission.

They fade so quickly. If only there was a way to make them permanent, for each to flare hotly when He touches me. Strike by numbers.

Chains

He asked me about my safe word. I made it up on the spot, then laughed. Such a ridiculous word. I couldn't hear a smile in his voice, and oh how I was listening for it. He shortened it for me, and I inner-smirked thinking that I'd never use it anyway. I don't remember the sequence, as if the blindfold made it all nonsensical. I let it all go. Forgot to think what it looks like, is this attractive, am I sexy, what is he looking at right this moment. It all disappeared in a second, and I just...was.

Then that felt hard, and soft, and good, and oh those clamps and yes, I love this, my mouth is so empty...please. Clamps again and christ that burns hot all the way through but still no safe word. Soft again, and sweet and care and don't you dare back away from me now, and then that pump and the pressure and his hand and telling me how swollen it looks, still I don't know the sequence. Inside me and all around me and twisting and how long did that last and his voice again, you may NOT. I'm so good, I'm so good, I didn't but I wanted and still I can't see, just feel.

Now it's light and there is his face and I watch while he pumps his cock in my mouth but I can't watch long because I won't be good.

Beating Banality

I was speaking with friends of mine about the fact that I have not successfully achieved subspace. Granted, it's not that I actively try...that seems counterproductive. I'm not sure that I believe in subspace, actually, since I only really have faith in something I can feel or have experienced personally.

My friend even said that she has seen me receive quite a severe beating and was surprised that I didn't reach it. The reaction of others was that they could get me there fairly easily, if given the chance.

I don't know about that, frankly. I stay very aware while in a session, and I'm not sure I could break out of that. I suspect that it will take an inordinate amount of pain to chip through my reality.

Generally, my thoughts range across a myriad of subjects and emotions, and go something like this...

'Gah, why didn't I wear the sexy undies instead of the everyday variety?? I knew this was a possibility!'

'Hmmm. My deodorant smells nice.'

'I wonder what this looks like from behind.'

'Oh, what's the name of this song???'

'Ouch, that stung.'

'Maybe you should pull my hair now.'

'Fuck. I need to get laid, this all-whipping thing is making me frenzied.'

'I wonder if he is hard...'

'This towel feels nice and rough on my nipples.'

'Oh, this is good, much more severe now.'

'I won't be able to reschedule that massage until the bruises fade.'

'Damn it, those people are too loud.'

'Sigh. Over already????'

Now you see the problem?

It was only a kiss

It was just that I needed it, so profoundly. I can't be here, read your words, and not. I didn't plan it, but I can't say it wasn't in the back of my mind.

I was patient, I tried to calm myself, tried not to jump there and be first. I watched, as I do. It wasn't enough.

There were hands and voices and yes, there was pain, some...and I shut my eyes and rode it and wanted more and harder and there were watchers and the music and those hands again and must not cum and please fuck me and don't and do and just make all of this in my head go away.

How can I feel better and worse at the same time?

Through a Glass, Darkly

The note on the bed was clear. "Remove your clothing. Place the blindfold over your eyes and tie it tightly. Stand in the middle of the room." She let her fingers trail over the silk of the blindfold and felt a frisson of fear.

With a delicious anxiety, she follows the instructions. Clothes are removed. Blindfold is tied, tightly. She waits in the middle of the room, nervously shifting from foot to foot. It seems like hours, but likely only moments, before she hears the soft rub of the door over the carpet, and the click as he shuts and locks the door behind him.

Silence, deafening silence. She imagines him nearly touching her, his breath on her skin. Then he speaks, from farther away that she expected. She jumps, startled...she was concentrating so intently to hear that she missed his words. Her mouth opens to ask and her voice falters, scratchy in the blind space around her. She swallows and tries again, "What did you say?"

A quick footstep and SMACK that she hears before she feels. "What did you say Sir," he says. Breathlessly she hastens to say, "What did you say, Sir, I'm sorry Sir."

"I said, you look lovely."

She blushes at the compliment, and is shamed at having to ask for it to be repeated. Her head lowers slightly as she murmurs "I'm glad I please you."

"Stand with your arms slightly in front of you, with your palms forward and the backs of your hands resting against your thighs." he orders. She complies immediately, wondering at the specific placement of her hands.

"I'm going to wrap you now. Be very still."

He begins at her chest, tucking the end of what feels to be plastic wrap beneath her arm, then walks slowly around her, holding the wrap taut. The wrap feels smooth against her, and the tightness of the application seems like a cocoon. Around and around he wraps, carefully positioning her breasts with each wrap so that only the nipples are exposed between the layers. He continues down her body, leaving her hands exposed and then tapping her ankles to indicate that she should spread her legs. He wraps each leg individually, down to the ankle. Thinking he is done, and has left her pussy exposed, she hopes that he means to take her this way, but her hopes are dashed when he begins to wrap again.

"Close your legs." he says, and wraps her from waist to knee, very tightly. The plastic is so warm, she can feel her body heating up underneath it.

"Now, carefully, walk to the bed and turn your back to it."

Walking blindly, she positions herself so that the backs of her knees are pressed against the edge of the bed, and he slowly lowers her until she is reclined. She feels completely helpless. He reaches down and lifts her feet and turns her on the bed so that she is strategically placed in the center.

All is quiet again, her senses are on high alert, trying to feel or hear where he is. Unbeknownst to her, he is sitting on a nearby chair, just watching her, testing how long she can remain quiet. The moments stretch out, longer and longer, and she feels restless in her helplessness. She whispers, "Where are you?"

A sudden pressure on the bed from his rapid approach, and another smack."What did you just say to me?"

"Sir, I'm sorry, Sir, I'm just frightened." she explains, mentally cursing herself for her own forgetfulness.

Feeling the bed shift beneath her as he straddles her body, resting on her wrapped thighs. Her hands feel the fabric of his pants, and the hardness of his legs.

"I think it's time to begin." he says, and places a gentle fingertip on one of her exposed nipples. She moans in response, and feels a pulse in her pussy.

Ever so lightly, he strokes her nipples, teasing them to hardness. He alternates between using his open palm to rub the erect nipples, and using his forefinger and thumb to roll them. She is shameless in her reactions, trying to twist her body to have his hands come in more contact with her breasts. He chuckles and spanks her breast, telling her "No more of that, be still or I'll stop altogether."

He raises himself from the bed, and she hears the telltale noise of him disrobing. The bed is jostled again, as he lays beside her, on his side.

"Now, I think I'll have a bit of fun." He bends down and takes her nipple into her mouth, and sucks strongly. Her body arches, as much as it is able, and she groans in pleasure. Being wrapped, she is incapable of touching him in any way, and the frustration is immense. She feels him thrusting against her, rubbing his hardness against the plastic wrapping her body. She is lost in desire, his mouth on her is steady and relentless. Her body is on fire, the plastic encasing her is holding in her body heat and making an inferno of lust and sweat. Her pussy is dripping, she feels the wetness against her ass, held there by the plastic as well.

It goes on and on, this wonderful torture. She orgasms again and again, begging him to release her, to take her, to do anything but to leave her nipples alone, now, please please please. His response? Suckling more strongly.

After a particularly strong orgasm, when she has dissolved in tears and begged him again to stop, he reaches to the nightstand to collect the large pair of scissors that he placed there before she arrived. She is sobbing, so grateful that it's stopped, and barely notices the slight tug as he pulls up the bit of plastic wrap just at her crotch. She hears the snip of the scissors, and feels the cool air on her heated skin. Then she feels the cold steel of the scissors, rubbing so carefully against the swollen folds of her pussy. The tip catches slightly, and she feels the potential pain, sucking in her breath and hoping that he will take them away.

Knowing that he is smirking at her fear, she relaxes, believing in the trust she has placed in him.

Another test passed, he smiles down at her unseeing face, and places the scissors back on the stand. Then he slips a finger between her legs, and lightly runs it along her pussy. The contact makes her gasp and push toward him, and he lowers his head to attack her nipples once again.

Her legs are still bound by the plastic, only that small slit gives him access to her. She wants so badly to spread for him, to give him more, to feel more of him on her and in her, but she is constrained to just that little bit of barely-there rubbing that makes her desperate for more.

She begins to cry in earnest now, and feels an anger well up at being so incapacitated. Her body heaves as she tries to extract herself from the wrap, or twist away from his greedy mouth. He knew this was coming, and rides it out, his mouth never leaving her sore nipples, his finger continuing to brush against the wet exterior of her cunt. She fights and struggles for several long moments, and then stops, exhausted. He grins around her nipple as she finally submits fully, and reaches his free hand up to stroke her hair. "Very good, my dear, I'm proud of you." he says, and even in her defeat she is happy.

Once again taking up the scissors, he cuts away the makeshift plastic skirt, until her individually wrapped legs are not so tightly bound. She remains still, breathing heavily, waiting for the next torment. He pushes her legs apart and looks at her pussy. It is swollen, and so wet, and red from the heat. His desire has taken over now, and he mounts her quickly. Her upturned palms feel his thighs against her, and her aching cunt finally feels his cock pushing its way in.

He buries herself in her, holds himself there for a long moment, then lies full body against her. As he thrusts into her, steady and relentless just as his mouth was, he whispers in her ear, again and again..."Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine.

The Naming of the Girl

This is a story of a girl. An adventurous, experimental girl. The girl joined a group, and met some people. And two of these people asked the girl's permission to play with her, in public, at a dungeon.

The girl spent hours getting prepared. She was so nervous to be naked, or nearly so, in front of strangers. Not just physically naked, but more...emotionally, or something even more than that. Stripped down to some bare essence of herself.

She drove to the dungeon, all by herself. She does everything by herself, this girl. Not a smoker, but smoking all the way, nerves nerves nerves.

She called her friend, one of the two people who planned to play with her, and her friend was already there. This friend, we will call her "F".

The other friend, a man, we will call "W".

F is a submissive, but likes the thought of dominating women. W has wanted to play with the girl since he first met her. There is a tiny spark of something there, but nothing that would be acted on, since W already has a submissive/wife.

But the girl is looking forward to playing with W, and with F. She finds in both of them a mentor type of relationship, and respects and admires them.

Back at the dungeon, F is already there, waiting for the girl and W.

The girl arrives, and there is much tenderness and touching between them. Not sexually, just that F is a very loving person, and shows it in her actions. The girl is far more standoffish, but blooms like a flower in the light of F's attention.

W and his sub arrive, and the dungeon is starting to show signs of life from weekend regulars.

F and W ask the girl if she is ready. She's not...it's so soon, it's still light outside, her other friends aren't yet there, so many excuses.

She is eager, but not one hundred percent sure she is ready. F and W reassure the girl, reminding her that this is what she wanted, but she can say no at any time.

The girl agrees, and moves to the area designated, and where W is setting up his tools. She stands there, one hand on her hip, a foot cocked out, shifting from foot to foot, wondering what she is supposed to do. The girl is trying to remain cool, to look as if this is something that happens every day, but her hesitation and shyness are starting to show through to even strangers.

Eyes are on her, she feels them. F approaches the girl and asks if she would prefer to disrobe in private. The girl blushes upon realizing that they were waiting for her to remove her clothing, and stumbles in her attempt to do so quickly. Laughing at herself, she kicks off her heels, takes off her clothes...leaving only her panties.

W takes her hand, and leads her to the bench. F and W coach her into position on the bench, helping her to get settled most comfortably, and W reminds her of the safe signals. Raising off the bench will slow him down, and putting a hand up will stop him. He will watch for her signals during F's turn at the wheel.

The girl is aware of her nakedness, her breasts against a towel, the firmness of the bench between her thighs and under her knees.

She is grateful to be wearing panties, still, her one last protection from the world.

Then it all begins. First, soft soft soft. A feathery chamois, rubbed all over. F whispers that this is to sensitize her skin, prepare her nerve endings.

Slowly they build up, moving on to harsher and harsher tools. The girl prides herself that her hand never raises, her back lifts only slightly to cause him to slow his movements.

The girl is taken down from the bench, and placed there again, but this time on her back. She can feel the heat on her back and ass sinking into the towel, and the scratchy fabric pulls at her already bruising flesh. The girl is smiling, happy in her place. F and W question her, is she ready to continue, can she bear it on her breasts.

The girl is pleased to be asked, but wants not to be, wants to just be taken. But she understands the protocol, and agrees to whatever they ask of her.

It begins again.

Soon her nipples feel as if they are on fire, hot and hard and swollen.

F presses her hand against the girl's vulva, while W continues to strike her torso.

There is so much to take in, so many places to escape to in the girl's mind. She teases them out, hiding bits of herself here and there, but never able to go there totally. That space she seeks stays vacant.

But there is a moment, between the girl and W. He is holding her wrist, moving her arm above her head, and there is a shock of eye contact and a shiver of something more. It's intoxicating, that too brief moment. Over before it began, really. But the girl sees, and realizes, oh, it could be....it should be....it will be. Not with W, but with one similar. And to wait for that is worth it.

The girl endures the rest, enjoys the rest, and all too soon it's over. This time she scurries to the restroom to dress, now ready to remove herself from the eyes of others, and be in her private moment without witness.

Afterwards, secure and strong in her fabric skin of protection, the girl is struck, as she always is, at the peacefulness she feels after being used. The girl knows that 'used' is a poor term for a scene without emotion, without cruelty, without sexuality, but has no other word to describe it.

The girl knows what she is. Who she is. And what she is for.

White Corset

I want a white corset
Straight-backed and resolute
Deceptively virginal

Kneeling behind an almost open door
Stricken by fear and desire
Blindfolded against my judgments

My nose ears mouth envelop you
I am pliant, open, soft
Bend me, hold me, bind me

It bubbles up slowly
A quiet resistance, a gradual push
But soon I am biting hitting
screaming flinging my heat
and tears of rage and want and need
and giving in

Over the edge, I'm taken
In ways I never understood
Dark blooms on paleness
Drops of red litter the virgin
Stained with color and belonging
Until no longer sure where corset ends and I begin.

Inconstant Companion

"Many men are deeply moved by the mere semblance of suffering in a woman; they take the look of pain for a sign of constancy or of love." -Honore de Balzac

I recently had the opportunity to attend an event during which scenes were enacted. A confusing group of four, then a young woman with a man clearly not her own...all of it seemed a bit...dull.

Then a man and a woman entered the stage. He started slowly, working up in both instrument and intensity. At the end, the crack of the whip stung my ears. As I watched her face, watched her manic and uncontrollable laughter...her strange hand movements as if to grab this moment out of the air, a friend leaned over to whisper that it was almost disturbing to watch. I nodded, half aware of what my friend was saying, I was so intent on watching the woman cross from reality to this place she'd gone.

Her head was slightly tilted to one side, and her eyes were cut in the same direction, looking at a point in space just over our heads. Her gaze did not waver, no matter how sharp the blow or how strong her reaction. I could see the welts forming.

My friend's words finally sank in, and it occurred to me that yes, it was disturbing, but only because I so wanted to be on the receiving end of that whip.