Thursday, 5 April 2018

When it's soooo not about your dick it actually is -- on the paradox of denial

I get exasperated by a common confusion between what I see as ''meta'' and what I see as ''in-dynamics'', by the confusion between the ''play'' and the ''reality' (these terms are in quotes on purpose). This is very clear when talking about ''punishment'' -- that's why I dislike the term ''corporal punishment'' and prefer ''impact play'', for example. I understand that in some dynamics people like to play at punishment (the whole bad boy/bad girl thing) and that's absolutely fine if that's what gets your rocks off.

It is also common when talking about denial and chastity. ''This is not about your pleasure'' or ''this is not about your dick'' gets bandied about a lot. I do it myself. But in this one, the distinction between play and real between in-dynamics and meta is even more commonly ignored and it sometimes drives me up the wall.

So let's pick this one apart.

''This is not about your pleasure'' or ''this is not about your dick''  is a fetish fantasy, an aspect of role play -- rooted in the fact that masochistic pleasure lies in masochist's displeasure and that submissive pleasure often has masochistic notes, or ones of sacrifice and self-denial. So far so good, right?

But see this one: it's not about his pleasure so he needs to be denied, unfucked, locked up and forbidden to masturbate? For, for the lack of a better word, real?

C'mon. If it wasn't really about the sub then his (or her, for that matter) orgasm or lack of it wouldn't concern the dom at all. By making a point of the denial we focus on the sub -- on their pleasure-in-denial/frustration. A dom who forbids her sub to come, or masturbate, makes it obviously as much about him as about herself, and thus (assuming consensual dynamic) about his experience.

Do I like denial? Sure. I love it, as something I inflict on my lover. I enjoy it for the whimpers and the begging and other various aspects of eroticised desperation. I enjoy the raw lust it brings to the surface. I enjoy controlling a playmate's access to his dick because it's fun for all those reasons but also -- obviously -- because I like dick and I like playing with dick. NOT, FFS, because I'm not interested in it.

On the other hand, if I want my partner -- especially a vanilla partner who doesn't enjoy denial or any overt dominance -- to actually focus exclusively on my pleasure  with actual disregard for his dick, I obviously won't bother with any of the denial or chastity shtick.

Instead, we'll probably fuck in one or another way, he'll come and then he'll see to my needs and wants. The bonus is that once he's come, he really isn't thinking about his dick, he really is focusing solely on my pleasure. Obviously, doing it in the refraction/slump period isn't that much fun for him, but then at that point it's not about his fun (whether that fun would consist in straightforward pleasure or inverted pleasure-via-frustration).

So if the sex is to be really (on the meta level) not about his dick, there is no need to bother monitoring and controlling said dick. For a woman who doesn't enjoy making it about his dick, either via exercising the control or inflicting the pain of frustration, active orgasm denial would be, surely, a chore. One might as well shrug it off and let him come as much as he wants, as long as he complies otherwise, which he might for all kinds of reasons, maybe because he's submissive who enjoys service, maybe because he likes to reciprocate and share pleasure in a completely vanilla way. 

The way I see it, a dom does exercise in-dynamic control using chastity and denial but that's because she actually gives the sub the denial and associated attention to his pleasure-in-frustration and yes, attention to his - controlled but very much in-focus - dick. Not because she takes anything away from him for real.

That's why the real ''it's not about your pleasure'' active male sexual service is rare to nonexistent in remote/virtual play. It's not really possible, because by the nature of the medium, a virtual lover cannot easily actively pleasure a remote dom. The focus is always on what can be done to the sub partner. 

That is, unless we are talking about a very old fashioned text-based what used to be called cybersex (remember that?). I recall one encounter with an old friend and sometime-lover few months ago, a very enjoyable old-fashioned fantasy sexting exchange which did feel close to what I'm talking about. 

He was just there, co-creating my fantasy, participating and responding in ways he knew I'd enjoy, helping me get off (twice), giving to me his fantasy self. I didn't even know (and I still don't) if he was aroused, masturbating with me, whether he actually came or not. 

It's not that I actively wanted him not to enjoy it, it's that it didn't matter if he did. It really wasn't about his dick. 

Thursday, 15 February 2018

This time of the year (2): For me

Continued from here.

I keep looking, first at your cock; my silent and focused looking, grown from desire but at the same time pushing desire into the background, as shameless as your display, your obedience as bold as my demand. Then at your face, for the first since I told you to strip, directly into your eyes, that smile of mine again, your lips ajar.

"On the bed. On your front. Still for me. No talking."


You obey, as I expect you to, in the low light your body spreads pale gold against the hotel bed white, your arms loosely around your head, not quite protectively, your face sideways and down, averted from the side I am now approaching; still. For me.

I wonder if you can hear me breathe, if my breathing crossed the line from just loud to nearly panting, take the few steps that separate my chair from the bed, sit down on the edge, around your thigh level, lean down. Just a little. Not necessary, but I want to, for some reason. My left hand in the small of your back. The scratch marks fading but still visible, and warmer than the surrounding skin when I touch them with fingers of my right hand.


''Fuck," I say.

You take a deep breath, then exhale, but don't move and don't say anything. Everything feels slow motion but fluid, like an underwater trance. I don't remember ever being as focused as I am now, but I don't think of any plan or a task or an objective. There is only now. I retrace the marks with my fingertips.

Lean lower and touch your skin with my lips. Open them, my breath damp. Tongue, a long lick and my moan, muffled; desire spreading all over my skin.

I shuffle higher on the bed and stroke the nape of your neck, my hand moving into your hair, playing with it, pushing your head into the pillow, my face next to you, laugh that somehow manages not to be a giggle, a whispered 'Good boy' before I bite your earlobe and straighten up, the left hand still in your hair, holding your head in place, the right one taking a lazy swing, landing with a splat on your ass. It's not hard, and I quickly follow it with another one, and another, playful swats with a relaxed palm. That's why the twelfth one comes as a shock: my swing is wider, the impact much heavier, all from the palm, unexpected. You flinch visibly, yelp, tense up to my laughter. I add another smack with similar parameters, followed by a few faster, lighter, sharper ones, fingers mostly, my hand smarting now, pink imprints visible on your butt, the way you tense and relax into each smack reflected in your breathing, heavier, partially muffled by the pillow.

''Getting pretty pink, boy,'' I stop and place both my hands on your ass, lightly, feeling the heat, wanting to dig my nails in and drag them down the reddened skin, stopping myself, for now, listening to your body, sliding my hands down, between your legs, pushing them apart, gently, more of an indication of how I want you to move than a forceful pressure.

Bend your knees, lift your ass up, keep your head down, try to keep relaxed or the next bit will really hurt,'' I say, panting a little. You obey, I stand up and look at you for a while, such a classic pose.

I had a plan. A sequence of steps. Items I thought I'd use. Things I knew you'd like me to do, maybe even beg me to do if I did it right. Ideas, even. Huh.

But just now the ideas don't matter and what you might want matters even less. I take a bigger breath and reach to my belt, undo it. You can probably hear the slight clang of the buckle against the metal button of the denim skirt. I pull it out, the leather worn and familiar in my fingers. Fold it in half and stretch using both hands. There is a sound, half way between a light thwack and a click. I do it for effect, for the sound that not-quite-precisely foretells that other sound that I am already excitedly waiting for.

I wrap the buckle ends around my right hand and get near to you, run the edge of the end along your back all the way from the nape of your neck down to your reddened ass, let it slide lower between your legs, leave it there for a split second longer, then slowly drag it back up in a meandering line as if tracing yet invisible patterns on your skin, lift it free of your body and take a swing.

The first one is light, as is the second, but I'm impatient now, I want to hit you harder, I want to see the welts come up and feel you squirm and moan. I stand with my feet further apart, and swing again, the leather splatting hard across your right buttock.


Faster and harder. Maybe I should have tied you up after all, though you are still holding up to the impact and the pain, holding up to the desire covering my skin fluid and viscous. I use the time between strikes to breathe, deeper, louder, more elaborate, streams of exhaled and inhaled air like a caress on my lips, the lips dry, flushed swollen and ajar. Your ass is now covered in marks, a nearly uniform dark pink background to a chaotic hash of raised welts, some of them edged with thinner, darker, graze-like lines made by the edge of the belt. I strike lower, on the more sensitive skin of your upper thighs and you yelp, flinch, nearly flail, but stay in position. I make the belt shorter and smack your butt again, the slightly curved end imprinting red crescents on your inflamed skin. You are panting in loud, hissing breaths, your muscles flexing and hips moving as if to adjust, balancing the avoidance and the seeking of pain, the obedience and the desire to escape. I laugh with the joy of this act and the residue of my own nervousness, the belt now longer again, a big flat whack across your buttocks, your loud moan, an inarticulate groan that morphs into an ohhhhh that turns into my name, a moan that I inhale and to which I respond with my own.


I want to touch you again, unwind and drop the belt and step closer, my palms on your ass, the heat of red skin and the raised marks under my fingers.

Fuck fuck fuck.

Rubbing, stroking, mapping the remade surface of your body, fingertips and then, after a second's hesitation, my lips, barely touching, my cheek, hot against the heat of my marks. I slide my hand under your belly and find your cock, rigid and warm, slick with precum, grab harder, stroke, my other hand pressing, then lightly slapping your stinging butt down, making it thrust into the vice-like grip, your panting faster, in wincing pleasure.

I stop and you visibly baulk, then relax in what feels like a disappointed relief. I push you back down, stretch myself on the bed, gather your naked body in my arms, your breath warm and damp on my neck, my legs still in stockings and boots hooked around yours, the soles rubbing up and down your calves.

I bunch my skirt up and guide your right hand underneath.

''Feel me, boy.''

You groan when your fingers meet the damp silk, I arch my back up a little inviting the touch, you start stroking slowly along the wet fabric clinging to my slit, upwards, finding the hard and sensitive bud of my erect clit, making me catch my breath and moan, dig my fingers in your hair, push you where you belong.

''On your knees on the floor. Take my boots off first.''

You slide off the bed and give me a smile that feels broad and dizzy, I can't help but respond to it with my own, and a low chuckle, part satisfaction part joy. You are on your knees by the bed now and leaning down, your hands stroking the leather, stopping at the buckles, hesitating at the zip pull.

''Go on then. You know you want to," I'm laughing again when your head drops lower, your lips touching the leather, your tongue taking what seems to be an experimental lick.

''Upwards. To the edge.''

We are playing the scenarios we have shared as fantasies so many times, the buttons and levers we imagined, and I still - still - still - find it amazing that it appears to be working, that the flesh on flesh either matches what we spent so much time imagining or that the fantasy has managed to trump the reality even when pushed into this reality, but whatever it is, it's patently working.

Your tongue slides off the leather onto the nylon of the stocking, wetly tracing the top edge of the boot.


I adjust my position, shuffle my butt to the edge and hitch up the skirt again, pulling your head in.

''Lick, slut.''

Your face is buried between my wide-spread legs, my knees up, my hips raised by a pillow.

''Inner thighs.''

Your tongue and lips touch my skin above the stocking, wet, slithery, exquisite and electric, a trail of kisses and licks along the edge of the fabric, occasionally sliding under the edge but just a little, I don't know who's teasing whom now, not that it matters. I want more and pull your head in position.

''Lick my knickers.''

I'm floating in a sea of pleasure and lust, your mouth making the already wet fabric soaked, your breath a warm steam, your tongue perfect, pliant, probing and caressing, somehow more thrilling because separated from my skin by the thin layer of drenched silk. My hands are -- loosely -- on your head, neither pushing nor pulling, just there, ready to adjust if needs be, one of them slides lower to your ear, fingers squeezing the fleshy lobe, nails digging, just a little bit. My legs are spread wide open, one foot braced against the bed, the other placed, lightly, on your upper back.

The pleasure, basic and all-of-the-body, washes over me in slow waves, I won't come like this of course, but I don't really want to, the earlier urgency is gone, this is a slow and perhaps the most selfish of all enjoyments when you nearly disappear for a moment and all there is is pure sensation.

-- tbc, of course.

Monday, 15 January 2018

Base and basic

We talk and write a lot on the Interwebs about desire being a thing of the mind, about the brain being the most important sexual organ, about "sapiosexuality" even. We write smut that borders poetry and sonnets dripping with filthy name calling, but sonnets nevertheless. We do text-only sexting and go on and on and on about seductive words and the elusive mental connection that trumps, or transcends, or oh-so-perfectly expresses the carnal.

And it's all very true. And yet. Some days it's not about the sexual magic, or the words, or the connection, or the intensity of the dynamic, or a mindblowing-orgasm-as-glorious-oblivion. Some days it's as carnal, as of-the-body as it gets.

Some days it's about the hungry cunt and nothing else really matters at all. The insistent sensation - not even an emotion, never mind a feeling or thought - a heavy fullness, a tension in the lower belly and breasts, as if your pants have suddenly shrunk even though you know they haven't. Erect clit and blood-flushed labia, slick and slippery dampness, swollen, tingly lips impossible not to lick or touch, dilated pupils that make you squint in a bright light.

It gets more insistent, and more physical, a constant reminder of the basic and base want; desire as a need for release more than anything else. All of the skin warm and sensitive and wanting, whole body a mirror for that hungry cunt.

And when you get it, it's not about sharing or giving. The orgasm less of a overwhelming wave of ecstatic pleasure than a powerful spasm of release, strong but brief, intense but focused.

Any fantasy will be abrupt, disjointed and utilitarian, and if there is another flesh-and-blood body there, conveniently placed to be grabbed and used, it will be a mere tool, a flesh-and-blood plaything, a cock a better model of a dildo, fingers and mouth intelligent toys for satisfying that need,

Some days it's about nothing else but that hungry cunt.

Saturday, 13 January 2018

Fuck first

Fuck first.
Fuck as soon as possible.

Of course the initial passion won't last. It would be stupid to expect it to. Long term relationships - dare I say love - are about intimacy and commitment. These need time to grow.

But fuck first. Fuck before intimacy grows, fuck before even a hint of commitment

Fuck when it's only about fucking. Fuck when the passion is the only thing there is. HAVE that time of obsessive infatuation when you literally can't keep hands off each other.

Don't mistake it for intimacy, but relish it for the wonder that it is. Don't hope for it to last, but let it overwhelm and consume you.

And in the rare cases in which love appears, if intimacy and commitment grow just as the flames start turning into embers, you will have it. 

Five years down the line, you will look back and even a glimpse will make you shiver. Twenty years down the line, you will look at each other and say “Remember when?” and even the echo will make your skin electric and your smile wider.  

You will have it. Not the current thrill, but the amber glow of its memory at the very base, hot, pure, bright, simple and true.

Fuck first.

Monday, 8 January 2018

If I Could Have It, It Would Be For My Use Only

You'd come only for me. I love the idea of fucking with your brain so much that you can never come without my permission ever again.
And now I’ve found this prompt, a perfectly serendipitous stimulus to say it again, to copy and paste and select the words, to turn them inside out from private to public, make a potentially public, implicitly exhibitionist display of a private desire.
A desire that manifests as greed for a breathless absolute of ruination, a fantasy of ownership utterly limited yet absolute within this limitation, both symbolic and corporeal.

If I could have it - if I could really, really have it - I would take your orgasms. All of them. Whenever you come, however you come, whoever you come with, you would come only for me. And whenever you don’t come, your face twisted with a grimace of frustration turning into pain, every moan and whimper more desperate than the one that preceded it, your very self receding into need, it would be for my pleasure too. You would not-come only for me.

Tuesday, 12 December 2017

Dominance and submission are not really kinks

I'm probably going to use the term "dominant" quite a lot in this blog, so for clarity here is my personal and subjective definition.

When I say "dominant" here,  I mean "sexually dominant". And what I mean by "sexually dominance" is a desire for, a want of,  a sexual arousal and satisfaction resulting from being in control of sexual interaction.

That's it.  Nothing else and nothing more. I'm not claiming it as a correct definition,  or the best one, it's what works for me and what I mean when I use this term.

Understood like that, dominance/submission is not even a "kink" in the way most other kinks are. It's more of a preference,  a style of doing sex and relating in matters sexual,  a dimension on which everyone who's not asexual can be placed.  It's a "how", not a "what".

In its more extreme forms,  it finds its expression in formal  D/s or other kinks that are often included under the BDSM umbrella.

But it's of course also perfectly possible to have kinks which often correlate with dominance/submission without being obviously dominant or submissive. Sado-masochism,  cross-dressing,  sensory play,  exhibitionism,  pegging are often used as part of D/s play but can also be done without power exchange or counter-intuitively to their obvious associations.  A masochistic dominant flogged by her submissive or a female submissive anally pleasuring her male dom are just two obvious examples.

This confusion between specific kinks and dominance/submission combined with the Hierarchy of Worthy Kink  often seems to result in somewhat disparaging comments the high clergy of HoWK make about "fake doms", "vanilla kinksters", people being "just bottoms" and a whole lot of other snobby,  hierarchical bullshit.

All that is well known stuff.  But stay with me a little longer.  What if we look at it from the other side? What if we remove the kinks from dominance/submission?

I believe it's perfectly possible.  I believe you can be sexually dominant or sexually submissive and not have any "kinks" that would be recognisable as kinks - no freak to get on,  no paraphillias,  no weird shit arousal triggers,  no fetishes, not even liking for rough sex.

It's surely possible to be "traditional vanilla"  in everything you do -  let's say, prefer piv sex in the bedroom, with low lights and no props, a bit of oral - and still be dominant or submissive: to deeply enjoy and get off on being in control or being controlled.

It's accepted that "vanilla kinksters" are prowling all around. I give you vanilla doms and subs, dear readers. They are out there, not even hiding, in plain sight. Ask your auntie Dot.

Thursday, 7 December 2017

[the last time] 1KB, last modified 2 years ago

I came yesterday, in a slow swirl of pleasure, from my fingertips to the core of my cunt and the tips of my swollen breasts. You were kneeling between my thighs, moaning perfect and you told me you were mine, mine, all mine, and I came on maybe the fourth or fifth "please".

(No. That's not true. I came watching a quivering mess of a 26 year old policeman from Oregon whose name I never asked hump the floor as he licked the carpet with a sandpaper dry tongue, a fat buttplug in his ass, twisting the clamps on his nipples, almost passing out with need.  I'd seen him gang banged and abused, covered in cum and blood and I hurt him more as a punishment for enjoying that. I'd kept him on the edge for the last two hours and he asked for more and more and more and I came, and then came again, and then I came for the third time, before eventually letting him jerk off, he took less than 30 seconds. But yes, it was on the fourth or fifth 'please'.)

[But that's not true anymore or I'm going to make it not true because the last time I came is now.]

Friday, 1 December 2017

This time of the year (1): Catch and see

It's cold, colder even than the date on the calendar and the early nightfall would make me prepared for. The time before the high Christmas rush of expectation but long after the last vestiges of the summer got swept with the rotting leaves, the time just before the first snow, the time of wet pavements and damp air seeping into your bones with a permanent drizzle. I'm slouching with my back to the wall, few metres from the door to the pub in which I was supposed to be fifteen minutes ago, the energy spelled out by the fast footsteps of my rushing here suddenly gone, the focus dissolved into a suffocating cloud of anxiety.

I take a deep breath, counting to ten seconds on the exhale and on the inhale. Two more, my heartbeat still fast, searching for the thrill in the fear that's now got merely clammy. I can't do it, can I? I'm not actually going to do it, am I? And even if I am, even if I do make those last few steps and walk into the warm interior filled with voices and a smell of coffee and booze, what is the chance that I won't be walking away after half an hour's empty wait? More deep breaths, glancing from the corner of my eye at the pub door just in case you are there, waiting, after all.

I dig a packet of cigarettes from my pocket, manage to pull one out, my fingers shaking; stick it between my lips, they feel dry and cardboard numb, can't find a lighter, mumble a ''fucking hell'', under my breath, but loud enough to attract a glance from a passer by, but that gives me a narrower focus I actually need and I start going through my pockets more methodically.

The lighter's flame appears suddenly, in all my funk I didn't notice anybody approach me but I am grateful for the kind gesture, leaning down a little to the light, instinctively protecting it from a gust by a cupped hand, and only when I take in and quickly exhale the first drag I notice that the hand holding the lighter is shaking and only when I raise my eyes to say thank you I see, and realise, and hear ''Hi, M,'' and the shock of it is not any lesser for the fact that this is what I came here for, and all the words I had in such oversupply before are stuck tight in my throat and all I can do is smile stupid and giddy until I catch your eyes and my smile disappears slowly, I drop my cigarette and reach out with my hand.

I have to write it in here, don't I? The private sign, so overused that it's turned cliche now, my palm on your cheek and my thumb tracing your mouth ajar, sliding in, probing, penetrating, a not-so-subtle hint of what might come later, your tongue soft and slippery and searching, your lips closing gently just as mine open over teeth nearly-clenched in a hint of a snarly smile.

I'm panting, all the anxious expectation and suspense and anticipation that preceded this spilling out, coating my skin with a glow that I can hardly believe isn't visible, coating my mind with a flickering forest of bluewhite flames, I'm letting it take me higher, and now, suddenly, I don't even know how or when, I'm not leaning with my back against the damp wall of a late November street but pinning you against it, my left hand in your hair, clutching, pulling your head slightly back and to the side, probably uncomfortably, I don't give a slightest fuck if so; my right hand around your left wrist, pushed onto the bricks fast and harsh until you ''ouch'' in pain, then pushed along the brick, grazed some more; my mouth on your neck vaguely in the region of your ear, ''Hello, boy,'' I whispershiss, then get my face even closer, smelling you, fucking hell how much I wanted this, all those years, all those years until I was sure neither of us needed or wanted it, until it was safe to arrange a meeting, as per widely publicised recommendations, public place, not too long, we'll have a coffee or a drink, chat and laugh, sentimental melancholy of things impossible and others that could have been, shared nostalgia for a long-gone virtual adventure never made flesh, and yet I am here, my breath damp on your skin, my tongue tracing your carotid, sliding all the way down to the clavicle, tasting you dizzy, my left knee pushed between your legs, my eses closed, forgetting to breathe then remembering again in a frantic gulp, then stepping back, looking at you from a foot away, ''Coffee? Whisky? Herbal infusion?'', I say, giggling, my right hand now on your chest, as if I had to keep touching you, as if it was physically impossible not to.

You nod a yes, I lick my upper lip, the air is damp and cold but feels like cinders sliding down my throat, ''Actually, I booked a room,'' I smile, a normal, playful smile now, a little challenging, eyes darting to yours, almost-but-not-quite-locking, shifting away, defusing; ''Actually, I booked a room too,'' you offer, also not quite looking at me at first, then we both do, laughter bubbling up, I'm shaking my head, ''Once a slut always a slut,'' you shrug a yes, as if it was an obviously shared understanding, comfortable now, we go to get that drink.


Less obvious, less tense, less wired, less easy later. The room is on the tenth floor and in the lift, we both look at the floor a little awkwardly, then at each other, then away.

''Turn round,'' I say, suddenly, something -- something different from the initial desperate lust that drove me in those first minutes -- emerging, and my current self allowing it to rise and step forward.

''Turn round and face the wall. Place your hands flat on the wall at shoulder height,'' I repeat, elaborating.

''Yes, Ma'am,'' you reply, your voice suddenly slower, thicker, almost slurred in a way that the couple of drinks we've shared doesn't get close to justifying.

My hand moves to the lift's control panel, finger presses the ''stop'' button, the lift halts between the floors. I step closer to you, stand directly behind, slide my hands under your shirt, feel your skin all the way down to your shoulders, warm and dry, not yet seen, I can't wait, but for now I merely dig my nails in and drag them down, two paralel tracks shivering down your back. I can feel you tense up, brace yourself, stifle a groan, then relax with my flat palms on your hips. I want to pull your shirt off, see the marks before they fade, taste them. My mouth is dry, air thick and sharp in my throat. I'm not sure if I remember ever wanting anything as much as I want this, now, all of it, so much that I don't even know where to start.

I unblock the lift, you remain in position until we get to our floor, only moving when I indicate it's OK for you to do so, the logistic realities intervene in the meantime by means of keys and doors and room layouts until I'm sitting down in the chair, my legs stretched out and crossed at my ankles, and you are standing in front of me, a few feet distant.

''Strip for me.''

You look at me, ours eyes meet and I smile a little, just one side of my mouth, your eyes dark and steady.

Your jacket drops on the chair to your left, your hands move to undo the buttons of your shirt, slowly but without hesitation, neither coy nor embarrassed. I move my eyes down, to your fingers. You are taking your time, leaving your buttons undone one by one, a lighter strip of skin in the opening of the shirt, a glimpse of a smooth chest and a shadow of a fine trail of hair leading down. You lean down briefly, your eyes still on me, take off your shoes and socks, move them to the side, straighten up. Your gaze still on me, I can feel it somewhere around my forehead, top of my head, looking at me looking at you.

This is not a show, there is no teasing in the way you slide the shirt off your shoulders, fold it and place it on the coffee table, your movements, slow, deliberate and precise in what feels more like a ritual than a seductive gradual exposure. You undo your belt, pull out and roll it. A hand extends to the coffee table, the belt gets placed on top of the shirt, but you are still facing me, watching me watching you. It's hypnotic, and I am not sure who the subject and who the hypnotist is here.

Your fingers undo the button of your jeans and pull down the zip, your hands move smoothly to your hip bones and pull the trousers down, to your knees and lower, until you can step out of them, pick them up and roll loosely before placing on the coffee table next to the shirt and belt. You are standing straight now, your hands loose at your sides. I can see the lines left by summer shorts, half way across your thighs and above the waistband of your boxers, your skin paler between the areas that retain the heat of the southern sun even at this time of the year. I can see the outline of your cock pressing against the checked red fabric, and I let another skewed smile creep on my face.

You have stopped now. I give you few seconds. I am tempted to say something about the lengths a woman would go to if she's denied an online dick picture, quickly stifle an emerging giggle, let the invisible wire connecting us stay taut, the air thicken with anticipation.

"I said 'strip'."

I can hear a louder inhale, a slight hiss of air going in through your nose, then "Yes, Ma'am."

Your hands moving again, fingers hooking behind the waistband, pulling the boxers down, your feet lifting, stepping out of them, until you are standing in front of me completely naked, cock hard, grown fully erect between my repeated command and your compliance, your chest and midsection rising and falling in deep breaths that feel like you are trying to purposefully calm yourself down.

I keep looking, first at your cock; my silent and focused looking, grown from desire but at the same time pushing desire into the background, as shameless as your display, your obedience as bold as my demand. Then at your face, for the first since I told you to strip, directly into your eyes, that smile of mine again, your lips ajar.

"On the bed. On your front. Still for me. No talking."

--- continued here

Sunday, 26 November 2017

Going under

I am sitting on the leather sofa in the living room by the fire, the logs burning well, my legs stretched out on the rug, the first drag of a spliff I have just rolled and lit dry and rasping in my lungs, then mixing with alcohol and lust, spreading throughout my body in golden, red crested shimmers. He walks into the room, naked but for the towel around his hips, makes the few steps from the door towards me, stands there without a word. I can hear his breathing, then a muffled gasp when he sees what's there on the low coffee table.

“Get rid of that towel, J, and come down here,” I say, and he does as told, dropping to his knees by my feet, completely naked now, sitting on his heels, eyes down, as I straighten up, lean over, take the black leather collar off the table.

“Do you want this? Do you want to wear it for me?”

He nods, almost imperceptibly.

“Say it, boy.”

“Yes, M. I want it. Please, M,” he says, his head bowed lower, his shoulders visibly tensing, shaking slightly, then relaxing a little with a long exhale when I reach out around his neck, buckle the collar on, my fingers lingering as I check that is neither too tight nor too lose.


My right hand on the back of your neck, pressing slightly with just a little more than its own weight, the short hair at the nape rough under my fingers,  your breathing slowing, deepening so I can see and feel the regular rising and falling of your shoulders, so I can believe, more and more, that you are actually here, on your knees, at my feet, your eyes down to the floor, my hand warm and steady, there, as the seconds and then the minutes pass, as the wonder becomes our reality.

I pull gently on one of the D-rings to get you to straighten up, my right foot moves along the slope of your thigh, slowly up to your cock, find you hard again, getting harder now that my toes are scraping along the shaft and curling around the cockhead, my heel pressing at the base.

“Down on your back,” I say and you stretch yourself on the rug along the sofa, your chest raising in exaggerated breaths, your cock under my right foot as my left one moves to your face, “You may use your hands, boy.”

You take my left foot between your hands and start kissing and licking, toes first, sucking each, your tongue between them, then back along to the tips of my dark red toenails and along the cuticle line.

I get your mouth to open a bit wider, push in for a short moment; it feels weird, as if I was raping your mouth with my foot, obscene beyond the drooling obscenity of a foot fetish, and yet hot, so hot I moan and press my other foot harder onto your cock, then lower to your balls, pushing them down towards your body, then the floor, crushing harder as my hips lift from the settee.

I withdraw my toes from your mouth, let you kiss and lick and suck more, lips and flat, slow tongue on the instep, up toward my ankle, then down to the sole, the curve of the arch, it would tickle if you did it with gentle fluttering touches but you seem to know that more pressure, broader strokes are needed. I move my foot slightly, press my heel between your teeth, the sole along your cheek, my toes by your ear, then back down.

There is something unbearably arousing in this prolonged contact between the very lowest point of my body and your face and mouth, and it's not just the immediate pleasure of your kisses and licks on my skin. They call it 'worship' and that's exactly how it feels, you down there prostrate under my feet and moaning for more.

I let the pleasure wash in waves over my body. The combination of tiredness, booze and weed make my skin feel like thick velvet, warm and furry; slightly numb and yet extra sensitive, new layers of response to the sensation appearing and developing, spreading; trails of feeling curling round my body up from my feet; I can immerse myself in what you are doing now, my muscles relaxing, my right foot letting go off your cock which springs back up as I adjust myself, pull my left foot away, reach down, grab the central ring of your collar and pull you up onto the sofa.

This is a bonus foot fragment of a much longer femdom narrative. If this appeals, check out:

No decorum

A follow up to this little tale, moving it away from foot fetish alone to more of a kinky F/m scenario. It wasn't meant to go like this, but here we are. 

I take a gingerly few steps across the drive, he follows me in, through the hall and into the living room where I collapse on a messy sofa covered with a mess of books, clothes and unspecific household items. I eye him carefully, standing in the door, my boots still in his hand, looking a little unsure but smiling a little too, looking hopeful but not as if he was going to push anything, and the memory - the feeling itself - of our little encounter on the bench by the carpark comes back to me, the bubble is still there.
I'm tired though, weary and stiff, my body feels numb despite the still present damp warmth between my legs and the echo of his mouth on my foot, so I stretch my legs out on the rug, ankles crossed, and wave my hand towards him.
''Just dump them here. Bathroom is off the hall, there should be a bowl and other stuff there.''
His smile grows bigger and he turns back and disappears in the hall, to emerge in few minutes carrying a square plastic washing bowl that I normally use for my more delicate underwear filled with hot water, and what looks like at least three of my best towels over his forearm. The pockets of his jacket seem to be stuffed with other bathing supplies and it all looks a bit silly and a bit touching and I am now sure I do want tonight to continue, and I'll worry about what to do next afterwards.
He puts one of the towels on the rug in front of me, the bowl on top, then drops to his knees and reaches to my feet, rolling the bottoms of my trousers up, his fingers straying lower but not remaining there,  before I put them in the bowl. The water is hot, but not burning, the splash of bath oil fills the air with jasmine, rose and lavender, and when he starts washing my feet I stop thinking of pedicures or of miner's wives in coaltown cottages, because although his touch is firm and practical, it's also undoubtedly, unmistakeably erotic, his fingers, slippery with soap and water, rubbing my skin, carefully, thoroughly, toes first, one by one, than between them, taking his time, moving to the soles, mostly still with his fingers but occasionally reaching for a flannel. He moves to my ankle next, more of a massage than a scrubbing, pressing the tired muscles and rubbing the swollen parts.
It's all happening in silence, apart from my occasional sigh and a ''yes, that's great'' of confirmation and encouragement, and I can hear my own breathing, and I can hear his, maybe a little deeper and faster than it would be normally but not in any way obvious. When he's through with the washing, he moves the bowl/towel ensemble to the side and places my feet on another towel, this time it's the big, thick, pale grey bath sheet which makes a luxurious nest. I expect him to start drying them with as much care as he put into the washing but instead he sits on his heels and picks my right foot, still covered with the film of water, up in both hands, leans down, gives me the same look he did at the bench and when I nod with a smile, brings it to his mouth, licking, kissing and then licking again, the damp of his saliva mixing with the damp of the water.
This is turning me on again, and I sigh and moan a little to show him how I'm enjoying it and to let him know he should go on, which he clearly takes seriously because the next moment he's on his back on the floor, my right foot still in his hands but now directly above his face, the left one still on the towel on the floor next to his shoulder.
He focuses on the sole next, his lips moving slowly, almost methodically, starting with the little toe and along the outer edge, firmer on the tougher skin of the heel, I can feel his teeth, biting but not painfully, than the inner edge, towards the arch, his tongue probing, testing, lingering, tasting, especially between patches of skin with different texture, tracing and mapping my sole and however ridiculous it might sound it feels like he's making love to my foot.
I sigh and adjust my position, unzip my trousers again, start slowly touching myself, wet and hot and starting to throb, arch my back a little which makes my foot push down on his face and he lets it happen, his mouth open and his breathing now close to panting. I move the right one up against him, make it creep up his side and to his cock, full, hard, straining against the fabric of his trousers.
''Turn sideways. No… take your pants off first, then turn on your side, the other way round… do the other one now…'' I stammer. He stops, with a little delay that feels like coming up for air more than reluctance, gets up and starts removing his trousers, pants, socks. Our eyes meet and I can't help but laugh a little, to him rather than at him, in wonder at this thing we are doing here, the bubble of sex that surrounds us and in which all that matters is the mutual need. He smiles back, his eyes growing wider when he sees me pulling my jeans and panties off, my legs open wide and wanton, my fingers emphasising rather than concealing the slick spread of my cunt, the swollen bud of my erect clit emerging between the labia a perfect counterpart to his rigid cock.
''Oh fuck….'' he groans, back on his knees, closer to me, leaning lower.
''Do the other one, I said,'' I don't know how or why I decided to do it, why I am not doing the obvious, the natural thing here and pulling him in, making him use that clearly accomplished mouth of his between my legs, but I know that's what I want just now so there is no reason not to suggest it, even if the suggestion comes out somewhat harsh and demanding.
He moans again but does what I told him to do, attending to my other foot as I focus on the pleasure pooling between my legs, as I get closer to the plateau on which I can stay for a while before reaching the edge of my orgasm, not caring now about the sounds I make or the movements or the view he might have from down there, until I have had enough of that, until I want more and different, and pull away from him, get up and make for the door.
''Come on,'' this comes clipped and harsh again, not because I want to humiliate him but because all I can think about now is my own need and this man whose desire lit that flame has now - at least for this moment - become nothing but a tool of its fulfillment.

He follows me to the bedroom, a couple of steps behind me, and waits expectantly when I stretch myself on the bed, on my front, my feet hanging off the edge of the bed, my legs slightly apart but not enough to let him see anything much.

I make myself comfortable and, with my head on my crossed arms, give him a glance across the dim room and call ‘’C’mere. Get to work. My soles, now.’’

In less than an instant he’s on his knees down there, his mouth and hands eager and beautiful, touching, stroking, licking, stopping, perhaps to look at my soles, the pressing and sucking again, almost all of the muscular tension of the whole day gone now, replaced by the spreading glow of arousal, my skin supple and warm, my cunt dripping with desire that is less directed at than facilitated by what he’s doing for me.

I raise my hips a little, my pelvis feels full, flushed and hot, I want to be touched. My feet spread wider, I am sure he can see up between my legs now, and even if he can’t, he’ll be able to smell me. I want his mouth elsewhere now.

‘’Come up and kiss down my spine, slut,’’ I say, the ‘’slut’’ unexpected yet bizarrely fitting.

He obeys wordlessly, I don’t look at him but can feel his body next to mine, his erection brushing my thigh when he leans down, his lips slow and precise on the back of my neck, moving down, my hips lifting up to meet him, his hands on my buttocks, his moan in response to my ‘’Yess, there…’’ when his tongue slides down to my ass and brushes my anus before getting the first taste of my wetness.

He’s stretched between my legs now and I’m rubbing myself on his face, all vestiges of decorum gone, panting and moaning, first on all fours, then shifting up, so I’m nearly sitting on him, my thigh cramping a bit but I ride it through, my hands in his hair, pulling, the focus of my desire moving from the exquisite sensations flowing over my skin to what I am doing with him and to him, the sounds he makes appear pained and this is turning me on in the most unexpected ways and I want more of it, fucking more, and more, shifting again and pushing him into a place that would fit what I want and need now.

I’m leaning against the headboard, my knees up, he’s flat on his back on the bed still, looking dazed, sticky faced and a little bit breathless.

''On your front and fucking lick,'' I hiss, my toes brushing his lips as he follows my command, the thrill of doing it like a jolt through my whole body, suddenly aware that I could actually kick him, make his lip split on his own teeth, make his bleed here for me, and maybe he would lash back out at me, but maybe he wouldn't and that possibility makes me dizzy with desire of a kind I have not experienced before, the same one that prompts me to push hard against his face and mouth, make him gag and groan in discomfort.

I'm rubbing myself furiously now, my clit like a hard and slippery nub under my fingers, so sensitive that I can't even touch it directly. I grab blindly to the side of the bed, grasp a diIdo I use occasionally and slide it deep into my throbbing cunt, the pleasure of this act a huge gasp and a swearing moan. He's still licking and kissing my feet but I can see him glance up to all the action between my legs now and then.

''Stop... just watch me. Don't... touch... yourself... without... asking....'' I stutter, high up there on the plateau of my pleasure, his frustration and obedience rising the heat.

He does as he's told, though his breathing is fast and loud and when I moan he responds with small, quickly stifled moans of his own. I get close, closer, almost there, my pleasure the whole of my world, the man I brought to me bed a panting shadow on the very periphery of it, his waiting, his patience, his at this moment utter focus on what I am experiencing an afterthought, a sweetly hot one but no more than that.

I come alone, in a huge, convulsive shiver spreading from my toes to the top of my head, and spilling at my core, a scream and a laugh few seconds later.

I stretch and relax, my right foot sliding to his crotch, now I remember him again, grateful and happy, with no urgency.

''Please...'' he whispers, and I answer with a not-quite-dismissive ''OK, go on then. On my feet," his hand a blur, his panting moan turning into a deep groan, the sticky warmth of his release splattering and dripping off my instep.

''Clean it up now."

I'm not really thinking he will, but it seems worth trying, the newly found role talking through me more than me talking from the role, his breath warm on my toes as he leans down to obey.


Friday, 8 September 2017

Boots off

This is another little foot fetish story. A lot of typical foot fetish scenarios are worked into a context of a top/bottom dynamic, but although I don't mind including some in my D/s imaginings, I usually don't focus on that. I want my D/s to be about me, not a body part or a particular act. But I do have a bit of a foot fetish fetish, quite separate from anything to do with power exchange. Thus this -- though it could turn into something a little more kinky in a follow up, if there is one.


That summer I was working as in a small local hotel as a general dogsbody, doing anything from managing bookings to waitressing to pulling pints at the bar. That day I was at the reception, when a guest - an American, single traveller, roughly my age - came down to complain about the TV not working in his room. I tried to get hold of the handyman but he wasn't around so I went up myself. It was a warm day and I was wearing linen trousers and plain, flat sandals, but I'd slipped them off under my desk and I didn't bother putting them back on for my stint at facilities maintenance.

I walked upstairs - up those wide, fairly shallow, wooden stairs covered in a dark carpet with only a hint of a pattern - he followed behind me. I had a very vague feeling that he was looking at me more intently than normal, that he was looking at my body, but there was nothing really obvious there and I just shrugged it off, thinking that maybe he was a fan of big blondes with hips spreading far wider than current beauty standards required.

The same feeling returned when we were in his room. The TV problem was with to do with jumbled up cables and wrong sockets so I went down on all fours by the sideboard, almost sitting on my heels really, but with toes curled up underneath.

We exchanged a minimum amount of small talk while I sorted out the cables and plugs but all the way throughout I had this persistent if still vague feeling of his staring at me quite intently, and maybe his breathing felt just a little bit faster, but nothing more than a faint vibe still. I went back to my desk and pretty much forgot about it until a couple of days later.

I worked in the dining room that evening and it was a busy night so I was pretty worn out after running between tables and the kitchen for four hours. Eventually everything was finished and other people left to do whatever young hotel staff do after work on a Friday night. I was ready to leave too, but stopped at a set of benches on the grass to the side of the hotel carpark for a cigarette before my drive home.

It was dark but not completely dark, with the full moon, clear sky and light from the foyer giving everything that quiet, eerie glow of a night-time countryside places.

I was wearing knee-high low heel boots over fitted black denim trousers, and my feet were killing me. I contemplated taking my boots off even before I drove home, but for now I lit my cigarette and sat back, right foot crossed over my knee, my back stretching, enjoying my rest and looking forward to the bath at home.

It was then that the American guest from few days ago appeared with a polite ''Good evening'', asking me if it was OK if he joined me on the bench. I didn't object, he sat next to me and we did more small talk, the usual stuff.

I dragged on my cigarette, complained again about my long shift and indicated towards my boots with a  wave of my hand, "I really want these off now, I hope you don't mind". I wasn't really asking, and before he said anything I put out my cigarette and reached to unzip the first boot.

"No, no, of course not," he said and I realised he was actually staring at me.

Or rather, staring at my boots, at my foot placed across my knee, my hands pulling the zip down and the boot off, complete with the sock, my foot free. I flexed it and wriggled my toes, ankle still resting across my knee, the bare skin pale in contrast to my trousers, the chipped red nail-polish looking still acceptable in the low light.

I heard a sharp intake of breath from the man sitting next to me and it was really only then that I consciously realised what was going on, or at least got an idea of what it could be. The strangest thing was that it should have crept me out but for some reason it didn't and I made a bit of a show of struggling with the zip of the other boot until he offered to help and I accepted it. I still don't know why. I was tired, I'd had a large drink before I left the building, my mind was in that twilight zone where the standard version of reality becomes less solid and possibilities start slowly swirling around.

And so I said ''Yes, do help if you don't mind,'' knowing now that he more than didn't mind, and he dropped to his knees on the ground by the bench and carefully unzipped the boot, pulled it off, pulled off the thin cotton sock too and I found myself with him sitting on his heels in front of me, holding my foot in both his hands, his fingers starting to rub gently.

"May I?"

I wondered if it was sensible, again, but those swirling possibilities were doing their job and actually I was enjoying the situation and enjoying getting just a little, fuzzily, turned on by the now obvious sexual tension. I slid my other foot up between his knees so it rested against his crotch and yes, he was hard and made a small stifled groaning sound when I touched him.

"Yes. I'll tell you if I get uncomfortable," I said.

He started massaging and stroking - and his touch was exquisite. Firm when necessary, soft when needed, rubbing and pressing the muscles in the various areas, pushing the hem of my trousers up to get to my ankle, then lifting it up as he leaned down at the same time, bringing my foot closer to his mouth.

He looked at me as if to check if it was ok and I sighed  and nodded a yes.

It was greedy but slow at the same time, wet and firm yet pliant and it made me, suddenly, throbbing, wet, aroused beyond what I could have ever imagined having my feet caressed could possibly do. I wanted my other foot licked now, or both at the same time, I wanted to feel his cock on my sole, skin on skin and not through layers of fabric, I wanted to fuck him with my feet there and then.

I moaned and he stopped for a second, as if waiting for me to tell him it was OK to go on.

''Don't. Stop. Now. I'm so fucking turned on…'' I stuttered, breathlessly, undoing my belt and unbuttoning my jeans, and sliding my hand into my panties, between my labia, feeling my own wetness and heat. The next part was bizarre, in hindsight, but by then I was too turned on to think that much. I made my fingers really wet and withdrew them, leaned down and smeared the sticky wetness on my toes and instep.

''Lick. Taste for yourself.''

He did, with a sharp intake of breath and a moan louder than mine had been, his tongue now frantic on my toes, then sucking them, his hands firmer holding my foot, as if he wanted to stop them shaking.

"Let's get out of here before someone else comes out" I offered when he came up for air, the voice of reason making itself heard in my mind, or maybe just making sensible arrangements for the rest of the evening. He got up without a word, standing there and waiting for me to move.

"Carry these for me, will you?'', I nodded towards my boots before walking to my car, barefoot, the bits of gravel in the packed-dirt carpark rough on my soles, my boots in his hand.

I didn't live far so I didn't bother putting them back on and just drove barefoot. We didn't talk much on the way, as if either was a little scared of spoiling the mood, piercing that bubble that we placed ourselves in when his lips touched my instep for the first time. I took my turn, parked the car, opened my door, put my right foot on the paving tiles of the driveway.

"They'll need a wash now" I said, not even teasingly but simply stating the fact.

"Yes. Yes, they will," he replied.


More foreign pleasures here:

Wicked Wednesday... a place to be wickedly sexy or sexily wicked

Turning a new leaf

One from the drawer, and long time ago. It has a MM element in a F/m context. 

She was about his age, maybe a little older. Early, maybe mid forties; a sharp bob of silvery blonde hair just skirting the strong jaw, grey-green eyes behind silver-wire framed spectacles, noticeable but not excessive make up; that is apart from the lips, covered in thick, shiny lipstick, bright fire-engine red, like a challenge, flashing from behind her oak, leather-topped desk.

She wore a tailored black trouser suit, a crisp white shirt with a few of the top buttons undone, a glimpse of the cleavage with a plain, heavy silver necklace with an oval jade pendant sliding just visibly between her breasts.

She listened to him carefully, her head tilted, her fingers playing with a pen, a slight smile on her lips.

'This is all very impressive, Mr McLeod,' she said, eventually, when he'd finished summarising his latest and older achievements.

'Joe, please,' he suggested.

She shook her head.

'We will see about that later. For now, I think a little formality will be appropriate.'

'I'm sorry, I didn't want to be presumptuous,' he offered weakly.

'It's OK. We are a bit old fashioned here, operating in the word of print to an exclusion of almost anything else,' she smiled.

'I would like you to tell me what brought you here, Mr McLeod. Your track record is exceptional, you worked for big companies and for big money. You must realise that we cannot offer anything comparable to the responsibilities, perks and remuneration that you are accustomed to.'

Joe hesitated. This was, he now knew, a make or break moment. So far it'd always been the latter, regardless of whether he chose to be evasive or more honest.

She leaned back in her leather chair, the fountain pen still in her hands, her eyes firmly fixed on him.

'I will be honest with you, Ms Summers,' he said, after a short pause. He had a feeling this was - just possibly - possible.
It was a small business, apparently a niche one, he'd had no time to check much after the unexpected call inviting him for an interview only an hour before

'I resigned from my last position, but it was effectively a constructive dismissal. I was given an option of resigning or having...' he hesitated for a moment, not quite able to bring himself to say it. As if it had not sunk in yet, despite the months that'd passed.

His interviewer got up from her chair and walked out from behind her desk. She approached Joe, sitting in a chair about six feet from the desk; stood close, looked down at him, her legs I apart, her hands in the pockets of her trousers.

'You resigned to avoid disciplinary action and possibly a criminal case because one of your employees accused you of sexual harassment, Mr McLeod. You have since attended several interviews, but as you are a bit of a hot potato, not many HR departments will take the risk, despite your glowing professional credentials. You have to cover maintenance payments to your ex wife, have a mortgage and are paying the fees for one of the most expensive boarding schools in the country.'

He was stunned by the research she'd done. There was nothing there that was particularly secret, but the sheer fact that she'd made the effort was unusual.

She walked back to her desk, perched on the side instead of sitting in her chair, her long legs crossed.

'So, you think you can sell enough advertising for us to make paying your salary worthwhile? Are you actually familiar with our market? Do you know the niches we operate in?'

Joe hesitated. He didn't want to admit that he'd come unprepared, but there was something about that woman that made him feel compelled to tell the truth.

'Not quite,' he said, slowly. 'But I am very happy and willing to learn' he added immediately.

She laughed at that, a quick, unexpected, low laugh that sent shivers down his spine.

'Oh, you will learn. I have no doubt about that.'

'Now, tell me more about the cause of your resignation. In all the gory detail,' she added, that laugh rising in her voice again.

Joe moved uncomfortably in his chair, crossed his legs, tried to consciously make himself more comfortable, more confident, to show that he was, on some level, and equal partner in this conversation, even if, momentarily and circumstantially, in a somewhat penitent position.

He knew she wasn't supposed to ask such questions. They were probably illegal. But he needed the job.

'It wasn't anything serious... just the usual old story. I had an... inappropriate relationship with my PA. Her husband had found out and she claimed I coerced her into it,' he said, quickly, to get it over and done with. It was the truth, and however tawdry it seemed, there was nothing to really be ashamed of, apart from getting caught and getting the short end of the stick at the end.

'Same old, same old,' she nodded and smiled at him.

'Was she worth it, at least?'

Joe baulked at the question.

Cat Summers stood up and walked towards him again.

'Was she worth it? Was the pleasure of your cock worth the pain of losing your job and falling several rungs down the ladder? Or was the risk... part of the fun?'

She was standing very close to him, slightly to the side, so his face was roughly at her chest level. Her jacket was now undone, and Joe could smell her, a mixture of heavy perfume more appropriate for an evening than day wear and the underlying scent of her body, dry and powdery skin odour and a faint trace of something else, a muskiness that crept on unnoticed to suddenly evoke a heady impression of glowing, sweaty bodies writhing in sexual passion, of damp pussies and slick cocks pounding them.

Inexplicably and unexpectedly he found himself sexually aroused, his heart beating faster, his cock hardening in his suit trousers. This made him bolder in his answers.

'I suppose it was part of the fun. It probably wouldn't have been worth it without it,' he admitted, getting more turned on by her closeness and his own arrogance.

She leaned down to him, as if to whisper in his ear. It was all getting weirder and weirder.

'Well, well, well. You should have got her to sign a waiver or something. That's what we do here, after all... or write it in the special clause in the contract.'

'Devi there,' she waved her hand towards her office door and Joe remembered the man who'd let him in, a twenty-something with café latte skin, shoulder-length hair and, as he now vaguely recalled, a silver stud in his tongue, sitting at the desk outside her office.

'Devi there... would have no leg to stand on had he decided to complain about anything... that is if he'd wanted to,' that laugh, again, and the shivers on his back, turning into a jolt of arousal that made his burgeoning erection move suddenly to the stage of noticeable bulge.

He had a crazy idea of that lad and Cat - no, Ms Summers - fucking in this very office, her hands on his muscular, brown back, her head thrown back in rapture.

She moved away a step and extended her hand to him, as if nothing unusual had been said.

'It was a pleasure to meet you, Mr McLeod. Devi will give you some materials to look over and I suggest that if you are still interested, you come early tomorrow to look into details. From my side, I am offering you the job, with a trial period of three months.'

Joe got up, trying to make sure his trousers and jacket concealed his hard on, shook her hand.

'And make sure to take care of that... before too long,' her eyes went down to his crotch and then, astonishingly, her hand followed them, a brief touch, not even a squeeze but a graze of finger tips along the outline of his cock.

He walked out of her office in a slight daze, his erection slowly diminishing but very much still there, his mind reeling. He felt she was having him on, maybe trying to provoke, and yet she also seemed completely genuine, if rather unusual.

He looked at 'Devi' at his desk, a curved modern grey and chrome one, covered with electronic equipment.

'Hi. I'm Devi,' the young man said.

'Cat said to pass you this, to have a look at,' he was given a thick folder full of paper.

'Thanks. Thanks, I was told to come in early so I suppose... I'll see you tomorrow?' he offered.

Devi smiled at him, the perfect teeth gleaming, the stud in his tongue flicking briefly above his lips.

'Oh, I'm sure we'll see a lot of each other... it's a small business, but great fun,' he said. Joe wasn't sure but he thought he'd winked, too.

He returned home with his head spinning, the whole experience taking unreal character in his head.

He couldn't have just been touched up by his prospective boss, who seemed to imply that the contract with her PA covered more than just professional services. A PA that was not only male but about fifteen years her junior.

But the persistent semi-erection he was experiencing must have come from more than just the stress of the interview. “And see to that” rung in his head as he walked into his flat, made himself a coffee and opened the folder to learn about his new employer.


He couldn't sleep, the content of the folder and the memory of the interview flashing in his head as he tossed and turned in bed. Yes, it was a niche publisher - the magazines that he'd found sample issues of in the folder were covering all aspects of perverse sexual interests, brimming with images of deviant sexual acts, interspersed with pieces of erotic writing that were highly polished but in many ways more debauched than the images that surrounded them.

For some reason he'd spent most time looking through the one called AT HER FEET, devoted exclusively to photos and stories showing men in various states of submission. Beautiful - and sometimes not so beautiful, but still strangely compelling - women towering over them, sometimes with whips and canes, sometimes just seemingly being there, exerting some kind of power over the naked, crawling, prostrate males who appeared to crave just that.

He was never interested in that kind of thing before, and several times he put away the mag, taking time to look at the others, ones that showed hog-tied nubile girls writhing in throes of forced orgasms, flogged within inch of being skinned, fucked by masked men in staged gangbangs; or even the one with a panoply of the most bizarre fetish toys, from full-body and hood rubber suits to purpose-made gas masks. And yet he couldn't focus on the others properly, even when he tried to take notes of the kinds of ads and advertorials that appeared to the sides of the main copy.

His mind returned to the first one he opened, to the photo of a male face squashed between female thighs, his needy tongue extended to lick but not quite reaching her swollen, red cunt, his cock bound in a complex looking leather contraption.

His cock had been so hard for so long by then that eventually he took matters into his own hands, even though he didn't like jerking off if he could avoid it, he came within a couple of minutes of furious rubbing, the sticky jism filling his palm with a torrent of vaguely shameful pleasure.

Now he was hard again, remembering Cat Summers, his boss as of now; the smell of her, the strange and provocative behaviour, the innuendo surrounding her and her young PA. He reached down to his throbbing member, stroked it again, picturing her red lips on it, then on Devi's cock, imagining the possible shape of her nipples, fantasising about her moaning above him as he licked her wet pussy into a shuddering orgasm.


He got up before six, showered quickly and got dressed in a pair of chinos and a smart-casual shirt. He wasn't quite sure what ''early'' meant but he was going to do his best to try and show his worth.

However unorthodox the business seemed, she had given him a chance and he wasn't going to fuck it up. Even if he needed to fuck somebody to make it, he chuckled to himself, most of yesterday's confusion gone from his mind, his confidence returning.

It was before eight when he arrived at the office, the door was unlocked but the open plan area, yesterday filled with activity, seemed deserted. He wasn't sure where to go, he'd not been given a desk or any other space, so he walked towards Ms Summers's office.

Devi's PC was on, humming quietly, but the lad wasn't there so Joe approached the door. Something made him slow down, hesitate before he knocked, his heart suddenly racing, his palms sweaty, a schoolboy feeling as if he was called to the office of the Headmistress after getting into trouble. He shook it off impatiently, knocked.

'Enter,' came a muffled, somewhat breathless reply.

He pressed the handle, pushed the door slowly open, made to walk in and then stopped mid-step, his eyes drawn, disbelieving, to the low couch placed at an angle near the bookcase-lined wall on the right.

She was sitting, or rather reclining in a half-sitting position, on that couch, the black jacket and white shirt on just like yesterday, but the suit trousers were gone, he could see them crumpled on the floor, her legs in nude, lace-topped stockings, the low heels of yesterday gone in favour of patent, three inch heels, one of the legs high on the sofa's backrest, a man - Joe was sure it was Devi - kneeling on the floor, his head buried between her thighs.

She was pulling his head with her hands, pushing it into her, her other leg folded so her heel - the shoe seemingly dropped - was resting just below his neck, holding him in place.

Joe let the door fall close behind him, but didn't move any further, his eyes fixed on the unbelievable scene, his cock suddenly raging hard, his breathing fast and shallow.

She looked at him above Devi's head, smiled somewhat encouragingly, then tilted her head back, closed her eyes, her face distorting in what seemed like a paroxysm of pleasure, he could hear her panting, moaning, saw her hips raising, her legs closing even tighter on the boy's head, he could even hear the slurping noises he made from his place near the door and was suddenly aware of his own powerful desire to swap places with Devi, to be there, kneeling between her legs, making her moan and shiver in ecstasy.

Her body shook, and she cried out, panting and moaning, then visibly relaxed as her orgasm subsided.

Joe was now shaking with overwhelming desire, his cock throbbing in his boxers, painfully struggling against his chinos.

She straightened up, pushed Devi's head away, pulled her trousers back on, adjusted her shoes, got up and walked towards Joe.

She extended her hand towards him as if nothing untoward had happened, and he shook it in his own trembling palm. He could smell her sex now she was near him, he could see the flush on her face, neck and what was visible of her cleavage, her chest still raising in breaths slightly deeper and faster than normal.

'Mmmm... you are not quite in the state to focus on the customer list I suppose,' she said, her eyes on the bulge in his trousers.

She let go of his hand and touched his cock with her fingertips, just fleetingly, but it felt like a jolt of electricity to Joe, he was in a serious danger of ejaculating there and then without even taking his cock out. It took all the willpower he could muster not to push his hips towards her hand as it lightly rested on the outline of his pulsating dick.

She withdrew her hand, turned his back to him and walked to her desk, leaning down as if to take something from her drawer, he couldn't quite see what. His eyes travelled to Devi, who was now sitting on the sofa, his head on the backrest, a strange, woozy smile on his face, as if he'd been as pleasured as his boss - his mistress, Joe suddenly verbalised for himself - despite the fact that he could clearly see that Devi had a hard-on that appeared as raging as his own.

'Joe, come here,' he suddenly heard, and looked at Ms Summers, who was now standing in front of the desk, leaning slightly against it. He noticed her using his first name now and it made him strangely elated, it felt like he was getting closer to her this way.

He walked slowly to the desk, acutely aware of his hard-on, stopped a foot away from her, looking at the floor, not quite knowing what to do.

'Closer,' she said, and now he was almost touching her, smelling her, the perfume and her sex combined into an intoxicating mix.

'Undo my jacket, Joe.'

He reached out with shaking hands, undid the buttons. The front opened, showing more of her chest, he could see her nipples poking through the fabric of her bra and the thin poplin of her white shirt.

He was dying to touch her, put his hands on her breasts, lick and suck them, make her push HIS head between her legs so he could pleasure her like Devi just had done.

'Unbutton my shirt, Joe.'

His fingers were trembling, the little mother of pearl buttons refusing to come out. He felt clumsy and desperate, but she didn't seem to mind, just waited there with a slight smile on her face. The shirt fell open eventually, her ample breasts in a bra of cream satin and sheer lace, the nipples now visible clearly, dark pink and round, with wide areolas covered with little goosebumps.

'You may kiss my breasts, Joe. Use your tongue and lips. No biting.'

His mind was reeling, he felt dizzy as he lowered his head to taste her. He licked the lace, felt her nipple respond, get harder under his tongue, bigger when he took it between his lips, trying to do his best to avoid grazing it with his teeth.

His heart was beating madly, and he heard himself moan with longing, felt his precum leaking cock dampening his boxers.

'On your knees, Joe.'

He slipped down, his face level with the belt of her trousers.

'Belt and zip, Joe.'

This was easier. He could see the dull sheen of her cream satin knickers covering her mound and the lower part of her belly, the musky smell of her sex stronger now. He wanted to bury his face there, lick and nibble, make her want him even half as much as he wanted her.

He felt a tap on his shoulder, looked up.

She was holding a strangely shaped dildo, or a vibrator, in her hand, with a realistic cock at one end a bulbous, shorter, up-curved form on the other.

'Now, Devi there gave me a nice little orgasm this morning, and he deserves his reward, so...' she stopped mid sentence and reached down to her trousers, pulled her pants down a little, then inserted the bulbous end of the dildo between her legs. It was now sticking out from her opened zip, and she sighed as she wriggled it in a little more, clearly adjusting for fit.

It was very close to his face, and he didn't know what to do - when she expected or even what he wanted to do himself.

'But he can wait a little bit longer.'

'Open wide, Joe.'

He baulked at her request at first, the fleshy-coloured plastic penis right there in front of his face. But for a reason that he couldn't understand himself, perhaps something to do with the waves of almost unbearable arousal crashing through his body, he opened his mouth, closing his eyes at the same time.

'Open your eyes, Joe. I want you to look at my cock.'

He waited for her to shove it into his mouth, but she didn't.

'Lick my cock, Joe.'


And he did, he licked around the stylised crown and then along the length of the dildo, then let it slide over his tongue into his mouth. It felt strange and yet familiar and for a moment it felt like it wasn't a silicone, rubbery toy but a real thing, fleshy and throbbing between his lips.

'Feels good, Joe? You like sucking my cock, don't you?'

She pulled it out quite suddenly, and he realised he didn't want it to stop. She was right, he liked sucking her cock.

'Don't worry. There will be time for more of this, and other things, later.'

'Devi!' she called, and the young man got up from the couch, he'd removed his trousers and top in the meantime and was completely naked, tall, lean, toned body with just-defined muscles, not athletic but not lanky either, the brown skin glowing as he moved towards them.

His cock was as hard as Joe imagined it to be, bobbing in the air as Devi walked towards them.

He had no idea what was going to happen, and he wasn't even sure what he wanted to happen, various options churning in his head as he looked at his boss, standing above him with a plastic cock sticking out of her crotch and at her young lover, approaching them with a flesh and blood one clearly needing release.

Devi kneeled on the floor a couple of feet from Joe, his ass in the air, his head on folded arms.

'Want to be fucked, sweetie?' She asked.

'Please, Miss. Desperate to,' came the answer and she lowered herself down, her dildo now touching Devi's sleek hip, her hand on his smooth ass.

A sudden realisation shot through Joe's mind. He wanted to be there, he wanted her to touch him like that, he wanted to be about to be fucked by her - he wanted her to fuck him - it felt, more than he'd ever wanted anything else.

But she was working lube into Devi's ass, and then she was holding his hips, the tip of her cock at his crack, he pushed back and she slid in, with hardly any visible resistance, started to fuck him in slow, rocking motion, rotated her hips as she pounded him.

'Oooh, what a sweet little slut you are, Devi,' she cooed, her head thrown back, her voice husky. Joe realised that her own sex must be stimulated by the bulbous end of the dildo as much as Devi's ass by the cock-shaped one.

'Mmmm, show me how you love it.'

Devi moaned in response, grinding his ass back into her, her movements getting deeper, faster.

Joe couldn't take his eyes of the scene, his hand reflexively wandering to his zip, his cock so achingly hot that he felt he could explode at the slightest touch.

She must have noticed him doing it, because her eyes suddenly focused, she looked at him sharply, still on his knees only feet away from the pair, her movement slower, then stopping.

'Suck my other cock, Joe. It's time to do it.'

He didn't get it at first, then understanding dawned on him, his mind protesting, his body responding with a spasm of arousal that almost took him over the edge.

'Here. Now.'

He crawled towards them, then stopped, sat on his heels inches away from where Devi and her were joined.

She reached out, put her hand on his shoulder.

'Down, Joe.'

She didn't push or press, but the hand stayed there. He knew he could get up, leave. He realised he didn't want to.

He followed the direction the light pressure of her hand indicated, went down on the floor, rolled onto his back, wriggled his head under them, his face just below Devi's cock.

She rocked her hips again, and Joe opened his mouth, like in a daze or dream, the heaving cock, slick with dripping precum, brushing his lips, then sliding between them, the smooth roundness of the cockhead filling his mouth.

He sucked and worked his tongue around it, and heard Devi moan, and then he moaned himself, in return. He could feel the boy's body moving as she fucked him, and then his cock twitched, he recognised the signs and for a moment he wasn't sure if he was going to be able to cope with that, but he knew she wanted him to - he was serving her in this way - and at that time he wanted nothing more than to please her, so he obediently took the sticky, warm load of salty cum into his mouth, let it slide down his tongue, dribble out on his lips, licked the other cock - her other cock - clean.

He hoped that one day, she would call his cock hers too.