Tag: BDSM

Categories
Fiction

Chair Pose

He kicks my legs apart, positioning my ankles at the binding sites of the spreader bar. I talk about my previous Dom as he straps me in the cuffs. 

“Old, childless bachelor, sitting on all that money, and still he insisted on sending me this cheap crap. The clips on the cuffs are already broken, see?”

“I see it,” he answers as he ties the bar to the chair’s back legs. 

With my ankles locked in place, he sets about tying the bar to the chair legs before drawing the rope between the legs and under to bind my wrists at the far edge of the seat. 

I go on with my complaining, slipping into memory. “He told me to set up wish lists for any kinky toys I wanted. I only picked out things on Etsy, but he ignored it all and sent me whatever Amazon garbage he wanted me to use. Then he made me perform with it on cam for him. I did as he ordered, but it never felt right.”

Mister clucks his tongue as he listens, my voice a little muffled now with my head flipped upside down, my face pinned between the chair back and my upstretched arm. He doesn’t share the disdain that I hold for the first Dominant to train me— I think he feels bad for the guy, imagining himself in the place of the resented ex. “Pity for him he never figured you out.”

“His loss, right, Mister? I’m not that difficult, am I? You understand me. You know how to work me.”

“Figuring you out,” he answers, tugging at the knots around each wrist to check for tightness, “is no mean feat.”

He steps back, surveying his work. If I tip my neck as far as it will reach and dig my chin into my shoulder I can see him, holding his jaw as he appraises my form, bound and spread and ready to be used however he desires. Exploring the limits of my range of motion in this pose, I arch an invitation through my back. He steps up behind me, too close now for me to see. I drop my head and study the hem of his boxers around the edge of the chair back. 

His touch lands abruptly, storming the most delicate part of me. 

“Wait! I’m not wet yet!”

“You are,” he says, squelching a finger against the pucker of my opening to make his point. “Hear it?” 

I do. It’s loud, a pot of mac n’ cheese just at the thickening point. He swipes the wet fingertip across my thigh to drive the point home. 

“That’s you.” 

“But it doesn’t feel wet, Mister…” I whine. “I’m not ready yet, I need…”

He cuts across me, teasing, pretending to be stern. “What makes you think anybody plans to use your pussy now?”

He steps away from me again and, this time, I close my eyes, not wanting to see. What will come will come, and when it does I will take it, whatever it is. 

“Besides,” he continues, his voice reaching me from the corner of the room where his play-equipment bag lies open on the floor, “we know how to get you wetter, don’t we?”

We do. He speaks of fear, of pain. These peculiar limbic stimuli that drench me for reasons that I still don’t understand. 

“Don’t we, Bunny?” he asks again, this time in a growl. Before I can answer, one rough finger shoves inside me to the hilt. My whole body starts at the shock of it, and I cry out. That was not supposed to feel good. Forceful opening: a punishment for my failure to answer the first time.

“We do, Sir.” 

With a slurp, he pulls the finger out, wiping it this time across my lower back. 

“Now then,” he says, and the next moment I feel his breath on my cheek as he bends to press his face to mine. “What’s your safeword?”

I gulp, but do not hesitate to answer. “May Day.”

“That’s right,” he says, pulling away, and all I hear after is the rush of the cane as it slices, ruthless, through the air.

Did this story leave you wanting more? If I’ve got your curiosity, be sure to let me know in the comments, like and subscribe. Cheers!

 

Categories
Poetry

What Good Luck

CONTENT WARNING: Sexually explicit content. BDSM and bondage, may be unsuitable to some readers. 18+ only. 

He leans, resting his forehead 
into mine. He is unable 
to slap me; force abandons 
his hand until he’s cradling 
my face in one palm. 
His calculating look 
softens into feeling
and his words 
grow simple– 
“You’re a good girl,” and 
“I’m lucky.”


I drop under. 
In the third hotel 
I hit a threshold dose. 
It isn’t sex 
that does it, not exactly, 
but once I cum for him, 
hog-tied with his cock 
soft in my mouth 
he lifts my chin, 
he takes my gaze, 
he asks me what 
just happened. He tells me, 
in an instant, I have changed.

Thank you to Wayne Crest for the photo and the inspiration. ❤️ 

Categories
Fiction

The Walk to Water (Part 2)

CONTENT WARNING: Sexually explicit, 18+. All characters are consenting adults.

For the next few miles, Arley persists in her efforts while XianSheng persists in his stoic non-attention to her work. He’s fully hard now but silent as ever, the hand at her neck moving in a constant rhythm. With the radio off, the rush of tires on road consumes her awareness. She slips into a state like meditation, her bobbing neck, her tugging lips, all of it falling away until there is only breathing. Arley’s sense of her own being collapses until she is nothing but a nose, two lungs, and subservient desire.

Then the hand at her neck departs. Takes the wheel. She doesn’t falter. The rhythm of his gentle touch is in her now, and she barely notices its subtraction. That is, until his left hand leaves the wheel, takes her by the nose, and squeezes. 

Robbed of her steadying breath, Arley begins to gasp around her XianSheng’s cock. As she struggles to inhale, he releases her nose and takes her instead by the back of the head, shoving her down until he fills her throat, stoppering her breath. Then he returns to her nose, sealing it from the air. 

With only one free hand he isn’t strong enough to hold her down by force and keep her nose pinched at the same time. But Arley is a good girl. She knows what he wants and, though his right hand isn’t there to trap her, she pretends. She holds her head still, flexing her shoulders as if she were struggling against him. Seconds tick. The panic sensation sets in, but still she holds. Her next breath will be his to allow, whenever he so chooses. 

And XianSheng is merciful. Just as Arley’s eyeballs start to pop, he lets go. 

Air rushes into her chest in a gigantic heave. But before she has a chance to exhale, he is pulling her back down by the nose. Sealed shut again, this time with her lungs at full expansion, Arley’s vision swims. The air grows stale inside her and her blood bubbles with excess carbon. 

Arley got herself into this. And he won’t let her out of it easily. Her mandate, now, is to trust him enough to continue to obey the direction of his hands. She must trust that he knows where her limits lie. That he will draw her to the edge and still protect her, relenting exactly at the line between challenging and dangerous. 

It goes on, and he never makes a sound. Arley grows woozier with every passing round. The intervals of holding shorten, the reprieves of open nose and throat grow longer, but still, her desperation mounts, as does her determination to prevail. 

Traffic slows to a near-stop once the highway is behind them. The brutal hand leaves her nose and doesn’t return. Arley hovers, gasping for breath with his foreskin resting between her open lips. Then fingers arrive at the front of her throat and push her up, away from his lap.

“Enough. Sit up.”

She obeys, shrinking back into her seat. Coldness in his voice plunges her into meek embarrassment. Both of his hands are back on the wheel now, his pants still open. She watches him wilt as her normal pace of breathing gradually returns.

Trying to relax, Arley takes in the change in the landscape. The congestion of the city at peak morning commute has given way to tree-lined streets, the rows of townhouses to the left of her boasting wide green swaths of lawn. She remembers just how much she’s been looking forward to spending this day outside the city. Absently, she brings a hand to the front of her neck, massaging it as she registers her relief at having her mouth and throat to herself again. 

Then XianSheng speaks. 

“Did I tell you to suck my cock? Or did you just take it for yourself like a greedy little whore?” His eyes focus straight ahead as he speaks, just as they have throughout her half-hour ordeal. 

“No, Sir, you didn’t,” she stammers. “Yes, Sir. I did. I…”

He holds up a hand, silencing her apology. 

“You know better. I think you choose to misbehave because you want to be punished.”

With those words, he spares a glance in her direction. His look is soft with affection, and her brain is soft with oxygen depletion. For a moment, she’s in love with him.

Then he reaches behind her seat and pulls out a one-liter water bottle, full to the top. He drops it on her thighs as he makes the turn onto Valley Green, forest now surrounding them on all sides. 

“You have one minute. Drink it all.”