I Could Get Used to This (She Thinks, Part One)


Chopping and stirring, she shuffled about the small kitchen, readying dinner. “Come away with me, in the night, come away with me, and I will wri-i-ite you so-o-o-ongs,” she sang along with Norah Jones, swaying her supple hips to the sultry rhythm. There was something about Norah’s voice that electrified her, made her want to close her eyes and feel every note, made her daydream about arms wrapped tightly around her, flesh gripping kisses, and fists tangled around her curls. It fit this evening perfectly.

She sang and danced her way around the kitchen, grabbing the last few things she needed. Bending to reach the bottom cabinet, she smiled, the cool air on exposed flesh reminding her she was wearing no panties with the nighty he’d chosen, just as he’d asked. As she shimmied and shuffled, there was the constant grip of the soft, black leather around her neck, and the tinking of metal on metal, as the o-ring of her collar sung a crisp, comforting tune with every movement.

The blissful song of ownership.

And all she could think was, I could get used to this.

The Quiet Game


The vibrator wasn’t uncomfortable, it was just odd feeling. Shaped like the letter C, the flatter part was inserted and resting on her g-spot, while the other end looped up to rest tightly on her clit. It was snug against both spots, a lovely reminder, even as it was turned off, that he was there, that she belonged to him. As Eva stood there before him, she didn’t really know what to think of it, but her heart was thumping. There was no denying her excitement – the thrill of wearing it in public. The possibilities……

“There are a few rules. You must stay quiet, no matter what I do with this remote, no matter where we are,” Jay said, with an evil smirk. “And, if I allow you to come, I want your eyes open, looking into mine, the entire time. Understand?”

“Yes, Master.”

“I’ll allow panties this evening, given the circumstances. You’re going to be a dripping mess and I don’t want this to fall out. You’ll wear these.”

Jay held the panties open by the band as he sat on the edge of the soft, paisley chair. They were the sheer, cream colored panties with toffee lace on the front, the ones that matched the bra he had laid out for her to wear earlier. Eva stepped carefully into the leg openings, first her left, then the right, holding onto Jay’s shoulder, leaning on him a little. She was trying so hard to concentrate, grasping the hem of her little black dress and pulling it upward a bit to see her feet as she stepped into the panties, revealing the tops of the Cuban stockings he had also laid out.

As Jay slid those sheer panties on, his fingers traced the soft curves of her calves, traveling to graze the backs of her knees, and she hissed, his touch sending a shiver up through her entire body, her nipples taut against that lace, toffee colored bra. When they finally came to rest, his hands came around to cup both ass cheeks and squeeze. Hard. Eva looked up from her feet, feeling Jay’s eyes on her, watching her face, looking into her eyes, and there was that coy grin again. He knew what he did to her; he knew she was putty in his hands.

Leaning over, Jay scooped up one heel, a beautiful six inch, black patent leather with a red bottom. He gripped her calf gently, prompting her to lift her foot, and slid his other hand down to her heel, guiding it forward to slip her foot into the shoe.

Eva wasn’t sure how she’d react to the vibrator in public, but she was already so fucking turned on and they hadn’t even left the apartment. He hadn’t even turned it on yet! She could feel those damn panties getting wet and she had only been wearing them for maybe two minutes.

Repeating the same for the other foot, Jay sat upright, leaned back in his chair and admired her. She was a masterpiece.

“You are so fucking gorgeous, Eva. And you’re all mine.”

“Yes, Master, I am,” Eva replied, blushing a little. That word did something to her, and it probably always would. Mine. Oof.

“While we are out, you are to stay by my side at all times, unless you ask first or are told otherwise. I will take very good care of you, as always. I want you to relax, no fidgeting.”

“Yes, Master.”

“And don’t forget – stay quiet when I turn this on, or there will be consequences.”

Jay pulled the egg-shaped remote out of the pocket of his slim fitting, black suit pants and held it up. As his thumb pushed a small, white button, Eva’s panties ever-so-slightly hummed. Her clit and gspot felt the faintest of vibration. Eyes wide with surprise, Eva was just about to make a sound, then bit her lip instead. Jay just stood there, watching her. And that fucking grin, oh, God.

This is going to be the longest night of my life…

-image found on Tumblr

She Waits, Part Six, Final


She Waits, Part One

She Waits, Part Two

She Waits, Part Three

She Waits, Part Four

She Waits, Part Five

Already, she’s trembling. Those few words have her body reacting, fueling her anticipation. He carries on, carefully rolling her onto her stomach, making sure her neck is comfortably to one side. Gently guiding the hair off of her face, the soft tip of his finger and the silky strands of her hair tickle her cheek, and now she feels his stare. She feels his eyes on her, bringing heat to her cheeks, not from embarrassment, but because she wants, so badly. She desires what is to come.

The blindfold ensures she can’t see, but he moves her hair out of the way simply because he wants to watch the expression on her face. Not being able to see strips away some of her inhibition and her expressions drive him crazy; they are raw and real and they reveal to him all the emotions and truths she doesn’t yet have the courage to express out loud. Her face, it tells him everything.

Her body’s unwavering responsiveness to him, along with her vulnerability – these are his sustenance; he thrives on them and they make him want her more than he ever imagined he could. She has given him a gift: herself. No more walls or barriers. Stripped of all that unnecessary armor and defense she uses with the rest of the world, she is bared, only to him. She is his and protecting her is necessary to him, but in order to nourish this profound connection they have, he knows he needs to push her, to test her boundaries. He knows he must be here to catch her when she’s pushed, to be her safe place. He’ll always be there for her.

“I’m going to help you get your legs under you again, Love, back into the same position in which you began,” he says as his hands travel across her back.

Only a moment ago, with a few simple words, he had her trembling – he was going to make her beg and the anticipation still has her stomach in knots. But now, his palms give her a taste of what is to come and her trembles turn to shuddering.

“Yes, Sir.”

“Are you cold, My Love?”

“No, Sir.”

He leans forward, off to the side she’s facing, and whispers with his lips so close that they lightly tickle her ear as they move.

“Relax, trust me, ” his breath hot on her ear and cheek, soothing her.

“I do, Sir.”

She breathes in, filling her lungs, exhales, and relaxes, calming. She couldn’t help him reposition herself if she wanted to; her arms are bound behind her back and her legs are bound thigh to calf.

Positioning himself behind her, he grips her knees, gliding them up beneath her. The silky softness of the sheets grazing her skin reminds her of his fingertips dancing in those same places just a bit ago. The tightness of the rope pulling and tugging against her flesh as he moves her legs reminds her she is under his complete control. It’s exactly where she wants to be.

As he sits behind her on the bed admiring her shapely, pink ass, her wetness glistening between her thighs, he remembers a time not long ago when she wouldn’t even talk to him about sex, not really. Now, here she lies before him, exposed, an offering of more than just body and flesh. For him, she offers herself completely, for his pleasure is her own.

Something had just clicked in them and between them that day they talked about all of this. Dominance and submission was still fairly new to them, yet, they never felt more at home. They’d never felt more like themselves; they belonged. It was the forever sort of belonging, the kind which inspired hope. And passion like they’d never known.

Totally exposed for him, she is irresistible. It is going to take all his strength not to take her right this instant. But he knows he needs to push her, to make her beg and plead and see just how far she can go and feel just how deeply she trusts him. He is going to take her to a raw place of need. He is going to take her there again and again and again. And he is going to love every minute of it.

Soft fingers begin to caress her ass as she lay in her position, waiting patiently. She’d say she hated the waiting, but that would be a lie, it was half the fun. Those fingers, warm and tingly on top of her stinging, pink ass, travel down to the back of her thighs, in between her legs to barely graze over her folds, almost a tickle on each side of that rope. Without even trying, her ass cheeks clench in anticipation of his movement, further.

“Be still, My Love.”

“Yes, Sir.”

Those fingers do not go any further, not yet. Abruptly, his palm lands a hard strike on her left cheek, then the right, then silence. Another set, then silence, and a hand lightly caresses the hand prints on her ass, in a circular motion.

This part, this is when she’s still. She always calms and savors each strike. She listens to the sound of his hand on her ass. She feels the sting and the soft touch that follows. And nothing else – her mind is free of all extraneous clutter.

As she inhales, he moves that rope to the side, strikes two more times on each cheek, then glides his fingers over her wetness, which is abundant by now, then circles and dips his two fingers inside her. Back arching as much as is possible, she gasps and moans as he massages her g-spot, beckoning forward with his fingertips over and over again.

His fingers never leave her. They circle and dip and massage as the other hand strikes one cheek then the other, in a rhythm. Strike, strike, massage, over and over until she is so close and asks, “Sir, may I please come for you.”

“Not yet, Love.”

Deliberately, he stops for a moment, simply massaging her cheeks. As his palm travels up her back, grasping onto her shoulder, he enters her swiftly. Soft kisses graze the flesh of her back as he holds her shoulders, pounding into her with ferocity. Hard and fast, he brings her close again.

“Sir, may I please come for you?”

“Not yet, Love.”

Slowing the pace, he allows her to calm a little. Then, he cups her hips in his hands, squeezing and sinking his fingers into her flesh as he circles his hips, his cock stroking and probing all the perfect spots, coaxing her to a pinnacle, yet again. He doesn’t wait for her to ask, this time.

“Do not come, Love. You will not come until I allow it, understand?”

“Yes, Sir,” she says with a small, shaky voice, trying so hard to focus. She wants nothing more than to please him. To make him proud. She will NOT come. But, he does not stop this time. He keeps moving his hips, teasing and prodding. Clenching her innermost muscles as hard as she can, she breathes in and out, and repeats to herself, ‘Do not come,’ over and over again.

Just when she thinks she can’t take another stroke, he pulls out. She exhales so loudly, she giggles a little, her relief out in the open.

“I’m not finished just yet, Love.”

As soon as that last word passes his lips, his breath is hot against her wetness, causing her to shiver and shake. God, she wants to feel his lips and tongue on her, yet she knows she’ll want to come hard and fast. She is so primed already.

His tongue traces her on the outside, just the tip, up and down. Dipping into her crease, that rigid tip slides down, finding her nub to flick, up and down, back and forth. She tries to lean into him, but she cannot, the rope is too tight.

“Please, Sir. Please may I come for you?”

“Not yet, Love. You hold on. You’re doing so well.”

His tongue goes flat, lapping at her, dipping into her opening, circling and teasing, getting her close, then slowing a little. Getting her close, then slowing a little. As he speeds up again, his thumb begins to rub in circles around her ass and now she’s at a place she can almost not take anymore. She wants so badly to come. No, she wants to explode.

As his tongue begins its rapid assault on her clit again, that thumb plunges into her hole and she has no choice. She clenches her walls as hard as she can, pleading, “Sir, please, oh please may I come for you? Please? Please? PLEASE?”

“To whom do you belong, Love?”

“I belong to you, Sir! Please? Please? PLEASE?”

“Yes, come for me.”

And, she explodes. Her body convulses, the orgasm gripping her from the inside out. Heat pulsing from her center through to all her limbs, wetness dripping onto the clean, gray sheets. All she can do is ride and ride the waves of pleasure. She knows there is sound escaping her lips, but she cannot even tell if she is forming words.

He simply sits back on his heels and admires. What a feeling it is to know that he does this to her. It is he alone that is capable of bringing her this much pleasure. It is pure power coursing through his veins. He can’t get enough. And he still isn’t finished.

Just as her orgasm begins to slightly dissipate, he enters her, harsh and quick, reaching up to tangle one fist in her hair. He pulls, not so gently, arching her neck toward his face, grasping her chin in the other hand. Prickly on her cheek, his whiskers scratch as he speaks to her.

“I’m going to fuck you now. Tell me you want it. Beg for it.”

“I want you to fuck me, Sir. Please, fuck me, please! Please, please!”

With those last words, he wraps his arms around her abdomen, tucking his fingers into the rope, using it to hold onto and he fucks into her. He closes his eyes, coiling all his strength and power and love into each and every thrust. He kisses and bites her back. He moans and grunts and consumes her.

When he feels her getting close again, he drags his whiskers up her back, pulls her hair back so her cheek is flush with his again and says, “You’re my Good Girl. Come with me.”

“Yes, Sir.”

Her voice is barely audible. Her mind has gone to a place of need she never knew existed. It’s a floating, dreamy place where her mind is flying, yet her body is moving involuntarily. It moves in absolute response to him. Her senses are so heightened and her entire body is so in-tune with him, it simply follows. It obeys. Even just his words.

His last thrust is long and deep, reaching the end of her, spilling himself into her as her walls squeeze and pulse and draw every drop from him. There are no words, only the sounds of their bodies clashing together and the sounds of their voices singing release.

He kisses and embraces her, telling her he loves her as he begins the untying of the rope. His arms bear her weight, bracing her and pulling her in to lean on him. Her body trembles and shivers, the pleasure leaving in small aftershocks.

“I’ve got you, Love. Shhhh. I’ve got you.”

He sits her back into him, resting her on a towel and has her sip some water. He gently rubs all the imprints, the places where the rope has kissed her skin.

“I love you. I’ve got you.”

She rests her body, completely. She molds herself to him. Again, she feels the beating of his heart against her back, her rhythm matching his. She wonders if it’s even possible to understand where he ends and she begins.

“I’ve got you.”

And she knows he means it. He has her, all of her. She belongs to him.

With all her heart, she believes it; they were worth the wait.

-image credit Tumblr


as the morning breeze whispers
the melody we made,
the sting and ache echo last night’s chorus
with each movement, replayed

the warm sheets still hum our candlelit din,
a masterpiece composed over willing skin

Sir, may we play that song again?

One Entity

Thwap, slap. Thwap, slap. She’s acutely aware of the smell of the leather in the air, of the changing sounds of instruments measured by the differing displacement of the air around her. Landing across her ass cheeks, one, then the other, sometimes both at once, up her back and down her thighs, the implements create a cacophony of sensation – prickly strings of heat, lingering, deep, sweltering aches made from the ricochet, vibrations traveling wood as it strikes, the pulsing waves of pain that reach each and every nerve ending, culminating in the wetness between her legs. Then the warmth of his palm caressing the stinging burn.

Eyes tightly closed, she feels the pill of the paisley fabric, soft against her exposed flesh. Her reddish brown curls cascade onto her shoulders, flowing over to rest on her jawline as she’s bent over the ottoman. Above her head on either side, her wrists rest, bound in the purple and black buttery softness of the cuffs, strung under the ottoman and held in place by the tie from her robe. Beneath her, her chest heaves in heavy breaths between quick hisses of inhaled air. The most intense pain/pleasure causes her to hold her breath in her body’s attempt to absorb and feel every bit of the impact, as her brain is challenging itself to relax and savor, to fully let go. To finally exhale. That’s what he desires.

Every few sets, she can feel his radiating warmth nearing her side, just before his breath reaches her cheek as he speaks, before his hands begin to roam her flesh. “Are you okay, Love?,” he always asks, this time gently moving her hair from her cheek with his finger so he can see into her eyes. As he does, her low moans escape lips unconsciously opened, forming an ‘O’ as she feels his fingers gliding over the ridges of the welts and tingling spots, again and again. Sliding down between her legs, his middle finger seeks evidence that he’s pushing her to a place he needs her to be. “You’re dripping wet. Do you want more?,” he asks. Eyes never leaving his, she replies, “Yes, Sir, I want more, please,” almost begging. Oh, God, she needs more.

Unrelenting, the strikes continue in rapid succession, intermingled with the brief, soft touch of his hands. Focused, she concentrates on the sharp, biting ribbons of pain. She’s on fire, a fast, increasingly fervent blaze taking over her entire being. Entirely in the moment, she is simply feeling him. As each instrument lands, instead of holding her breath, she feels the freedom to exhale with her voice, her screams echoing against the walls, her excited breaths filling the spaces between. It doesn’t take many more before her focus comes to a peak, and she internally slows. There is no more external sound. There’s only a rhythm she feels deep within her – the ga gong, ga gong of her heart beating against her chest, the musical thump and reverberation of implements absorbed through her skin, the comfort of the shift in the air behind her.

Now, she is truly alive in him; they are one entity. Control and complete surrender; love.

All and Nothing

Eyes cast downward and arms clasped gently behind my back, the dim light from the laundry room passes over me, reaching across the room. A soothing sound emanates from my iPad and I know there are words being sung, but I don’t hear them. I only hear him, his footsteps slow and methodical on the hard floor as he chooses his instruments from the drawer. I don’t care what he’s pulling from that drawer, but I know he can see my grin. I anticipate what is to come, the nervous excitement from the pit of my belly working it’s way to the outside. My grin tells it all. I know he will take me. Somewhere and nowhere, all at once. Our place.

I don’t need to see his face to know that his is reflective, thinking over his plans for me. Confident, but not arrogant. I know he’s wearing a slight grin, too, but his is different. He knows what is to come. His is the smile not unlike one would wear when the last card in your hand is trump. Except, this is no game.

Rigid and cool, the crop shaft presses against my lips and I part them, welcoming. No words, just a gentle push as it makes it’s way to rest on my bottom teeth and my jaw closes to hold it, as I know what he wishes. I watch as he pulls the homemade suede flogger out of drawer, one swift swing close to my body, a snap in the air, cool against my skin, my nipples responding to him. The lower part of me clenches and holds, not at the snap, but in response to his show of presence, my wetness flowing and tingling for him.

Not more than a few seconds later, his warmth radiates and the scent belonging purely to him sends chills through me, gooseflesh forming as his feet come to rest between my open legs, kneeling before him. Grasping the crop, he gently slides it from my teeth with a slight upward push, telling my head to follow, then letting the crop come to rest next to his thigh. Again, one quick swipe through the air next to me, but this time I twitch at the sound, at the whoosh made with that instrument I love to hate. “Do you really think I’d hit you near your face with this?,” he says with a coy grin. “No, Sir,” I say through a grin of my own. Then, with a chuckle as he speaks, he says, “Well, then that’s two for flinching,” and behind my back, with the flick of his wrist twice, I feel that crop land two whacks, one squarely placed on each cheek. We both giggle, eyes locked, something more than feeling passing between us.

I am his mercy. He is my control. And, in this moment, we are nothing else.