Denial

I crawled to your feet today.  You patted my head as if I were a child, and sent me away, with love and kindness. 

Cruel Master.  Denying me your touch. I ache with need for you, for someone, anyone.  Would you give me leave to sate my desire? Shall I chose someone else?  Or would you choose for me? 

Ohhh... someone new.  A new playmate, a toy, a new playground for me to explore!  Would you like to watch, my Beloved? Instruct me how to please our new companion? Would you like to see my mouth open to receive another?  Watch as I spread my cunt open for the eyes of another... the cock of another?  Would I make you proud?  Would your cock swell with pride, knowing how my tongue would feel sliding up the length of his cock?  Or would you rather see me with another woman?  Watch as I lick the wetness from her pussy, suck on her clit and bring her screaming to orgasm?  To spank her, at your command, knowing the sting so well myself?  Would you let me come at all that night, or would you deny me yet further?

Sometimes, while you play with me, making my body hum and vibrate and explode, I imagine someone watching us through the window slats. I love the thought of someone being turned on by how well you play my body; having them be so captive they just stand there watching as we make each other come. Would you  let them watch quietly?  Would you invite them in to have their way with me; your plaything on loan?  I am excited and terrified by that thought. 

But tonight, denied, with the wind howling outside, I retreat to solitary pursuits. 

The Weight

The weight of your body

I feel safe

and loved

Hold  me tighter

Fill me
Empty me

Never let me go
I am yours
Always.

First Touch

I love that first touch.  Cuddled together on the couch, safe in your arms, happy and content... until that first touch. That touch that is somehow so different from any other. Sometimes it's a direct touch; your hand gently brushes over my breast to show your intent; other times it is simply a change in the way you stroke my arm that whispers "sex."  My body responds to that touch so powerfully.  Last night, you made me come twice, just from that touch; teasing and stroking my nipples and breasts until I was gasping, moaning so loudly I fear I'll wake the household up. Twice, with not a single touch below the waist.  Then you invited me to the bedroom, where I started to get ready for you; but you growled "I can't wait" and grabbed me, held me down and took me so hard I saw stars. Almost twenty four hours later, I still see them.  I love you so completely, my Beloved.  

Home Alone

Not entirely. The offspring have all gone in separate directions, leaving P and I alone. Almost as soon as the door closed, he started dropping hints that I was in for an interesting evening. After I cooked dinner, he looked at me and said "When the children are gone, I see no reason for you to be wearing clothing, unless you're cooking."

Years ago, in the dark ages before we actually met, he had told me I would not be allowed to wear clothing except at his discretion. It was a wonderful fantasy; one that was less than practical with kids about during the daytime hours.

So now, I sit in my knitting chair, almost naked (it is a little chilly, so I'm allowed a robe over my shoulders and back. And I sit here, wondering and thinking what plans he has for the evening. I know they include the woven leather belt he's draped over the back of the couch, but what else I have no idea.

He knows that sitting here with my nipples hard must be driving me crazy. I'm glad for the robe to sit on too; otherwise the chair will need spotbot treatment! He's across the room, ignoring me, knowing I'm only going to get hotter and wetter the longer he makes me wait. I know it will be worth it.

When it rains

It's here again. Storm, the literal and the figurative. My brain filled with images I can't control. My body vibrates with desire, the need to be touched, to touch, taste, feel. Incoherent scenes flash through my mind. My fingers gently tracing the soft swells of a woman, painting her skin with my tongue, my touch. I'm drowning in the sensations of my imagination. I need to focus, do the daily things I am responsible for, but I cannot escape the driving desire. It will not leave me alone.

I wonder if other women feel this way; are they slave to their sexual desires? I don't see the hunger I have in anyone else's eyes. Do I cover it up that well? It seems so bare to me, that surely everyone must know how wanton I am.

I can only be at peace when I surrender. His acceptance gives me permission to be hedonistic. It absolves me of responsibility and keeps me safe from myself.

Tonight I want to experiment; to see if I can orgasm simply from having my nipples teased. In the middle of the storm, I feel like almost everything makes me shivergasm.

Vulnerability

Leaving oneself open to hurt, to criticism, to ridicule and pain is no small thing. To do it repeatedly, even after betrayal and injury, would seem madness.

I must be mad.

Allowing myself to show the most vulnerable sides of myself has been difficult, but also very rewarding. P somehow manages to tread the very fine line between Mastery and humiliation. When he calls me his slut, it is devoid of the connotations most people would derive from it. Instead, I hear his pride of ownership, his pride in my sexuality and in my need for him. Rather than embarrassing me, or humilitating me, it validates me. I am totally rewarded for my vulnerability. He gives me what I need in every way.

Stage Three

The pleasant stage has passed. I'm now in the throes of Stage Three.

Hunger.

It's all consuming. There is not one thought in my head that isn't screaming sex. My body vibrates against the air, aching to be touched. I try to muddle through my ordinary day but every moment is a struggle to keep myself under control, to not let on how my body is poised, waiting for a touch to burst into flame.

I know that it must be written on my face. I've never been good at hiding my feelings. I know that every nasty thought, every twisted fantasy in my mind is telegraphed to everyone I pass by, but no one seems to notice. I feel powerful, and I feel shame. I am unsure of myself, unable to convince myself that I will not act inappropriately, that I will not molest someone passing by.

I'm home now, waiting. Waiting for the dark. Waiting for the children to be put to bed. Waiting for dark. Waiting for silence. Waiting for the time that I can let go; when I can unleash the full fury of wantonness that is so desperate to be released. Waiting to implode.

Soon, if only I can wait.

Back, With a Vengence

Out Of Control.

I am. At least, my thoughts are. My fantasies have turned down roads I previously could not have fathomed, turned dark and somewhat frightening. Terrifying, actually, if a whisper of them were to find their way to the real world. Desires so overwhelming I cannot contain them, I barely restrain my fingers from grazing against my cunt with the longing - these are bad enough. But the object of desire - now that is something of which to be terrified.

The Beloved, he tries. He tries to sate the fever, tries to break its possession of me, but it is as grains of sand in a whirlpool. He touches me, fingers lingering over my breasts, teasing my nipples, pinching them into painful, aching points. Long kisses, his tongue taking his rightful ownership, drawing the breath from my lungs. Firmly now, owning me now, his hands move lower, directing the dance as our bodies undulate. The scent of my pussy is strong as he slips his fingers into my wetness. Claiming ownership, he fucks me. First, sweetly with love and tenderness. Then again savagely, spanking my nipples, my ass, my pussy. Hard. Twisting my nipples, calling me his slut, making me come several times in gasping, blinding explosions before he allows his release. Sobbing, I bury my face in his chest, holding so tightly, repeating "I love you so" over and over.

For the moment, I am content.

Asleep in my chair, I feel his arms move over the back of my chair, sliding gently past my face, down my neck, going further, to cup my breasts, tease the nipples, brush the sides oh, so gently. Eyes closed, my back arches into the soft caress of his hand. Again, his fingers travel languidly over my curves, tempting, forcing those deep shudders I call shivergasms. His fingers now replaced by his cock, so hard and soft, damp. He places the tip barely at my lips. I smell the fragrance of clean, aroused male and inhale deeply. My tongue flirts with the head of his cock, teasing in it's own right. I open my mouth to take him deeper and he whispers "Not yet..."

My eyes snap open.

It is not the Beloved.

And the shock, the mind splitting realization of who it is, wakes me quite effectively, to discover I remain enclosed in the arms of the Beloved.

Heart pounding, I fly through all the thoughts and feelings I can separate in my head. What the fuck did that mean?

In all our years together, I have never had a sex dream about another man. Women, sure. Plenty, as a matter of fact. And daytime fantasies; harmless passing,drifting "what-ifs." Dreaming? Well, that means something, doesn't it?

Worse yet is this betrayal. The Son of the Beloved. My stepson, so close to me in age I could be an older sister. The fact that we are not blood relation does not comfort.

Faster the thoughts come now. More frightening, more shameful. Fear and fantasy play through my mind. I think of the Beloved as Master, and remember how often he has wanted to see my mouth full with another man's cock. Fantasy or reality? What would I do should he ever demand such, for real? If he knew of my dream, would it please him? Disgust him? Would he command such a performance?

What would I do?

All this complicated by the fact that this man, this younger version of the man I love so dearly, is at this moment only yards away in the guest bedroom. Close enough, perhaps, to have heard my orgasms earlier, not to mention the spanking... I want to melt into the earth.

In the morning, I make coffee. I can look neither man in the eye. Suddenly shy, uncertain, I finish my tasks and flee the room, certain that they both read easily the guilt and shame, and yes, excitement, in my face.

I am again betrayed by my body. The storm is upon me and even my skin has a direct line to my clitoris. The briefest brush against me is pure torture, and I have to fight not to gasp aloud. I wonder if the dream is merely a product of my raging hormones, his face simply the most convenient target. Often in hormone storm, I cannot look anyone in the face, afraid that my desire is broadcast in my eyes, afraid they'll do something about it; afraid they won't. And even now, I cannot give up the dream that continues, the dream of both men inside me, thrusting, filled, being wrapped in so much virility and love, surrounded, drowning in the Charybdian pools, sucked down, not breathing, reclaiming my Self from the Void.

It's been a while

I haven't been feeling well for some time, and it's left a mark on my libido. There are stirrings, however, that foretell an improvement in that area. The vibration is back. The longing is back. My mind is leaning towards the dark side. I'm hoping there will be writing tomorrow to remember tonight's experience.

Hum

Or maybe it's buzz. Like a bee, or a hummingbird.

My skin vibrates. Touch me, it telegraphs. Or perhaps it's reaching out, trying to find the stimulation it needs. I shudder, shaking out the longing.

The Beast is in his early, tentative state. He intrudes on my thoughts, but is not yet insistent. My body longs, but is not yet consumed. This is the warm bath and candles stage, the soft lights and softer touches stage. Slow, lingering, warm. The dancing stage, teasing back and forth.

It's pleasant, right now. But I know what's ahead.

Clockwork

Clocks should be this regular.

The Beast is always worse at work. The tedium of work just isn't enough to distract me from the thoughts that torture my body. My mind just wanders over every experience I want to remember, every fantasy becomes larger, more intense. Rope work is my current obsession. Not having experienced it, my mind imagines the feel of the rope being pulled across my skin, feeling it tighten and restrain me. How I would feel to be so tied, so dependent, so vulnerable. How would my body look splayed open or tied closed on the whim of the one who tied me. How would it feel to be teased, acted upon, with no means to respond physically.

The need for intimacy at this point becomes pain. I wish it were as simple as needing orgasm; that would be easy. A short trip to the restroom with my teensy bullet would result in blessed relief, and I could get my brain back on track. But that's not what I need. I need touch, to be touched and to touch, to taste and kiss and moan. Maddening.

Spoiled

A little too much wine. Justified in my mind, because the beast has not been fed. He turns nasty, he does, when he's left hungry. Petulant, and sometimes downright mean. Because he doesn't like the fear. And when he's hungry, and doesn't get fed, the fear pours in, invading, consuming. Not a pretty picture at all.

Return of the Beast

I'm sitting here at work, and I simply cannot get anything done. My head, my soul my body most especially are drowning in a cloud of sex. He's reaching his peak, the Beast is. I can tell, because my thoughts turn from mere sex to S-E-X. Savage sex. Painful sex. Obsessive sex. Brutal sex. The kind of sex that isn't shown in soft core porn, or in Playboy or Penthouse. Slamming, kinky, wild, abandoned sex. The kind that scares me a little, and probably scares P more. And just behind it, underneath, the beginning of the pain. Currently at titillating levels, but showing promise of taking over, and becoming Most Unpleasant.

I do hope P has eaten his Wheaties.

And I wonder if I will have the backbone to lead our play to what I need.

Balance

One of the things I love about you is that I don't know what to expect. Occasionally, this leads to misunderstandings and hurt feelings, but far more often it brings tremendous rewards.

I shudder when we're cuddled on the couch and you slide your hand down to brush my nipple. Part of that thrill is just the basic touch on an erogenous zone (there's a zone?) but a larger part is the anticipation. How will it be tonight? Will you be tender and loving and vanilla? Will you be Master, hard and punishing? Creative? Will you focus on my pleasure, our yours, or ours?

The answer comes as we're kissing slowly, tender, stroking, teasing. The Master enters as you grab my hair, forcing my head back. I gasp as your knee forces my legs apart and your lips attack my vulnerable throat. When your teeth snag my nipple, the bottom drops out, and I am lost. All awareness is gone. There is nothing but you. Your touch, your taste, the things you make me feel. Your hair is loose tonight, and the silky softness of it trailing my skin only heightens the roughness of your hand spanking my pussy. Already I can hear the moisture in that slap. Tonight, you don't make me wait. Pinning my hands over my head, you enter me, fucking me hard and fast. Unexpectedly, I come quickly, but you barely pause, still fucking hard with a low growl. I watch your face as you begin your ascent, and the sight and the sounds of your pleasure hit me full force again, and again I come hard, sobbing with the intensity.

This was one of the best times, when your mood matched mine so perfectly. Just the right amount of tenderness, just the right amount of control. Love. Love. Love.

The Phone Call

"Touch your breasts."

Panic. I've just answered my cell phone at work, and Master is on the line. Just the sound of his voice is enough to make my legs shake. The command, barked without consideration of where I am or who might be watching throws me into a spin. Trying not to glance around I raise my right hand to my left breast, cupping it over my clothes.

My quickened breathing tells Him I have obeyed, and I can almost hear him smile. "Tease your nipple for me."

I open my fingers to let my now extended nipple slide between them, and I pinch it between them, pulling slightly.

"No." I freeze. "Under your clothes."

My mind racing, and my pussy dripping, I slide my hand into my blouse, inside my bra. I let out a soft sigh as my fingers brush the nipple that is so hard it hurts.

"That's better," he says. How does he know? Does he truly know me so well that he can hear my compliance in my breathing?

"Treat them nicely now. Tonight, they will receive much harsher treatment."

White light explodes in my head as I flash on images of what that statement could mean. He laughs at my gasp. "I love you, my slut."

The rushing of the blood in my ears is so loud it takes a minute or two before I realize it's the dial tone, and hang up.

Anticipating the Moment

Darkness.

Silence.

Sensory deprivation, I think it's called. It does interesting things to your mind. And body, at least in my case.

Expectation and Anticipation. At some point, I know you will touch me. When, where, how, I cannot say. I stand bound, with enough slack to prevent injury. I am blinded though the room is dark. Even my ears have been closed, that I might not hear your soft footfall to warn me of your approach. Naked, I can do nothing but wait for you, thinking of nothing but that first touch. Imagine a sudden smack on my ass, or even more intense, the softest brush against my nipple. How is it, how can it be, that often the most featherlight touch can slam into my body harder than the ruler you so love to spank me with?

My head is filled with every sensation you've ever given me. Lacking actual external stimulation, I recall every touch, every smack, every whipping you've bestowed on this vessel. Empty vessel waiting to be filled. My knees so weak, my pussy so wet, my nipples aching, waiting. Are you in the room? Are you sitting quietly, watching my need, reveling in the discomfort you've brought me? Are you out, watching TV, unknowing of my need, careless of my wants, knowing I will be there when you need a vessel to accept your cock?

And still I wait, tortured by my own thoughts and desires and needing your pleasure to release me.

Exhausting

This has been some week.

There are powers in the Universe, and I can feel them hammering, molding me, saying it's time to pay some attention to the greater things right now.

Fuck them.

But one can't dismiss the Universe so casually, can one? It has a way of making itself known. Persistent bugger.

I've been trying to figure out what my place is, where I fit, and the energy it takes has been amazing. Exhausting. Starting the week with the Beast, and only being partially able to attend to it's needs, was draining. Trying to reconcile my physical sexual self and my spiritual sexual self, and tossing in the emotional self results in far too many selves in one spot. A sudden, recent spate of self injury, or near injury, leads me to wonder if I'm intentionally looking for an out, or if Someone out there is trying to tell me something.

Since I'm not feeling particularly self loathing at the moment, I'm wishing that Someone would make the message a bit clearer.

I hadn't really intended this blog to become a journal, or a therapeutic means, but to be a place to put my erotic thoughts. Maybe they can't be walled off so easily. Maybe I need to address the whole of me, and learn how to integrate all those selves into one Being.

Or maybe I'm just a full of shit, self absorbed, accident prone, pathologically sexually obsessed deviant with a mystical Julian of Norwich complex.

I'm sure the Universe will fill me in eventually.

What does it say about me?

Here I am at work, reading some new sites that I've followed from Vespertine Erotica (amazing site, btw!) and my browser is full of d/s sites, and I hear the door open.

What does it say about me that I hide the bag of pretzels I'm eating BEFORE I close the compromising browser pages?

What would Freud say? Especially since the pretzels are RODS, not twists....

Demise of the Beast

I have discovered the one single element on the planet that can halt the Beast in it's tracks.

A teenage son.

After having sent P a very explicit email regarding my plans for teasing him for several hours before finally allowing him to explode in my throat, followed by a very enjoyable but somewhat injurious afternoon of bowling with B, I proceeded home with every intention of letting the Beast loose.

Enter A, the aforementioned teen.

Okay, so he's not really quite a teen; 21 in December but not quite up to his age. Current power struggles have reached the limit, and he's in actual danger of being evicted, toss out on his arse to forage on his own. A new incident not only subdued the Beast, but may have put him in a coma.

So Mama went to bed, far too late, libido checked and halted, leaving me this morning with a tired headache, a pulled muscle in the hip, and far too little in the way of sexual enlightenment.

The best laid (or not!) plans....

The Beast's Return

Ten hours.

That's how long the Beast was subdued. I can feel him fighting his way back, insinuating his need into my mind, my body. I feel the heat, the wet, the pain beginning again. Distracting, not yet overwhelming. I'm still able to maintain control, for the most part.

Maintain control. That's where the fear comes in. What if I can't? What if this Beast so overwhelms me that I embarrass myself? What if I get caught masturbating at my desk? What if I jump some poor unsuspecting guy because I need cock NOW and to hell with the consequences? What if I take the lead with P and he doesn't like it? What if everyone finds out what a slut I am?

Submission makes things both easier and harder. By submitting, I am absolved of all responsibility. I don't have to try to guess what P needs; I let him tell me what he wants and make me fulfill his desires. I don't have to worry about making mistakes; I just do what I'm told. The flip side is that (while P is amazing at reading me) I don't always get what I want. Or as often as I want. I don't get to try things I'd like to (reverse cowgirl, maybe? That naughty fantasy that never fails for masturbatory sessions?) or when I want.

I can't see ever even wanting to be dom. There is little about it that appeals to me, and I'm fairly certain P would NOT like it at all. What I would like is to have enough confidence in myself and in P to be able to say lets try this, or I feel that, or touch me this way. I have moved along in this direction a great distance, due to the trust I have been able to give to P, but there's still a long way to go.

That's one of the good side effects of the Beast. In full hormone storm, I have sometimes been able to express myself more than I normally would. One of the worst is that I question; are my desires and appetites more than P can handle, and I'll lose him because of it?